My toes are always burdened,
the mirage of my own existence
hides with way I walk.
No, bright sun or cool breezes,
warm flames or chilling silences
can refill my chalice of purpose.
I have to keep drinking myself
till I am empty enough to flow,
There is no taste for longing,
Its just a weather my tongue never forgets.
We are all pieces of unfinished monologues,
laughing miserably with a blindfold,
remembering a perfect sleep.
– Shashank Bhardwaj
What is this heart?
if not a emotion driven by a flood of questions?
I lay shirtless in an unknown darkness,
Somebody robbed me of a known darkness,
Every nerve has a memory
Hence, I have no words to describe winter,
It reminds me of months of change,
It now reminds me to assess of the change.
There are no pomegranates or apples in my gardens,
It is just the ice soaked grass,
my toes hurt when I trespass my property.
For what?
I cannot change the end of winter,
If Winter was here, can Spring be far behind?
Nobody should ever listen to the aches of comfort,
of a winter of campfire and whiskey
You get used to it slowly,
Now the bottles are empty,
Some broken,
Some lost.
I wait in the edge of a land of disappearing snow,
thinking was it all worth it?
Yes it was.
Somebody tell my heart once again.This.
Please.
– SB
Come here,
Sit next to me,
Don’t leave me tonight.
Watch, as the emeralds melt
in the turquoise colored sky
and the winds of winter
dry the sky’s wounds
through mellow howlings.
This cold is neither bright or dark.
like our love, it is mysterious and tasteless.
Come raise a glass of wine to our love,
let it spill and purify the snow.
Let it drown us, till we become reflections,
aligning perfectly in infinite dusted mirrors.
Don’t leave me tonight,
Come here,
Sit next to me.
He lives through his sketches,
surviving on frugal meals
mostly bread and wine.
Night and Day,
are melancholic mirrors.
he keeps trespassing between them
ignoring the sense of time
creating a vortex of imaginary visions.
Countless Albino Butterflies,
bathe in his color palette.
color-soaked wings
now seek the blank canvas,
the kamikaze of hues is imminent,
for the art to strive
and the artist to escape,
the meddling reality
sun bathes in snow,
a few hues melted
to eventually freeze
in the sky
a crepuscular light,
a white grave of memories,
that smells like burnt wood
and fresh dark wine
by the fireplace
a white sheet of blindness,
over a glass of silenced darkness
fire devours
the aching coldness,
the melody,
appeases even gods,
the fangs of frost
grope the petals of the flowers,
some will perish this winter.
intertwining beauty and death
both of which I seek,
but at different times
in my life
It rained almost every night,
the darkness settled in arrays
of brisk coldness,
dissolved in the winds
which howled and shattered
glasses of silence
that followed
for you it just meant a delay,
in carrying those earthen pots
walking with bare feet,
holding the grace and modesty
though puddles of cold water,
the weathers and wonders of god
meant nothing to you,
toiling for days and years
for a future unseen,
visioned through tired puffy eyes
of yours,
the only light you believed in
were in temples that devoured
ghee.
I slept all this time,
but never told you
about the minutes I counted
and waited to hear you mother,
to put the earthen pot
now full of water,
back on its place
and to see you settle down,
next to me again
as the dawn
proceeds to the dusk,
a thousand images
of this beautiful world,
rotate and change,
sublime visions,
evaporate,
my capillaries,
and adrenaline
burst straight up
like a heroin abuser
drowning in a pool of dreams.
for I have been summoned
to peek in this kaleidoscope,
we sometimes call life,
and I just stare.
the mirrors would shatter soon,
the music will slither in,
it would be dark and damp.
Just as I dreamt once.
that night.
Writings to Heaven 