Yesterday I thought of you
And the yesterday before
It seems as if my yesterdays
Are full of nothing more.
It is not only yesterdays
Of which you've entered in
For tomorrow is soon to come
Where more thoughts of you begin
to never end, dissolve or disappear.
Tag Archives: Imagine
Fear – Haiku
weight of existence,
A parable, an axiom :
coward’s religion
Drown
Like the waters in Greece,
blue, succulent , tapered into viscous curves
stay now, don’t leave.
This sigh reinvents itself more warmly,
sensing your departure.
Let me dream of it as you disappear,
The bed with white linen reminding us
of our flesh embellishing our existence.
A touch is what remains etched on my eyes.
Somehow now unseen, untouched.
What would the yellow kiss of sunlight greet?
A smile made of dreams?
Or dreams devoured off smiles.
The plants exhale hues of tamarind,
warm green tea succors the seperation,
In my wake,
I am next to a bottle of our emptiness.
I should have drowned when you stared me last night.
Felt
The unknown are felt,
With hands moving inside,
Feeling the black bra, while
your face turns red with joy of ecstacy.
Everything turns to water, your lips below
turn into a fountain of desire,
and your legs closing with wetness.
Waiting to be touched
Waiting to be consumed
Waiting to be felt
Shashank Bhardwaj
Blight of Social Commentary
Let me paint this visual for your eyes, It is a lazy laid back warm afternoon, the verandahs are still your only quinessntial medium of communication with world and people outside without stepping out of the comfort of your home. A glance from a verandah to another is an invitation in silence, it is a language of intimation with eyes. This weather draws families to this pod for every human is a social animal.Over tea or coffee with snacks, discussions brew within and outside the family and they ususally end there itself. They revolve around the upcoming world cup or the local elections, few people discuss markets and some pupils dilate at such whisperings. Mostly it is the gossip that survives a session, the potpurri of happenings around the society or sometimes the world is where the aroma of excitement never dies within one room but spreads from house to house. It was a time when thoughts had a very little chance in becoming a idea that grips a nation overnight.
Things have changed dramatically, technology whose purported meaning was to make life easier has now engaged societies, people or even nations at scales unimaginable. Every single thought now has the capabilitiy of become an idea. No matter good or bad or worse. With the means of communication at our fingertips, is the conscious movement of people driven by an idea tearing down the social constructs of “individualistic decisions and its sole consequences”? In simpler words, do we still have the capacity to originate an original idea and stand by it ? Or even better, do we have the time even to sit and gauge the idea that is being pushed down our throats? Can we like old times, sleep over a perception, or research over an idea? Is the entire construct of developing ideas and perception has been affected by the huge unavoidable influx of social commentary driven by humans drunk on an Idealogy?
In a time, where the definition of freedom is debated, can we debate the individualistic freedom of making self driven decisions? It is almost ironical that this is a social commentary, another idea pushed down by a social means but there is no end to this circle. I would sleep over this off, Its a weekend, let it be like that.
Shashank Bhardwaj
Heartless
The tongue is heartless servant, it slithers on your neck and lips, like a snake devoid of warm flesh, I feel the warmth and the tremble in cleavage, but I am cursed as in Eden.
It smothers the bra slowly, peeking within with satanic eyes, the warmth is a thirst for a thing made of out flesh, it multiples while inside, caressing, pressing, Disappearing with eyes,
Your breath is a kiss of blaze burning and I was a winter worth nurturing with hands choking my existence
The breasts caressed slowly, into a tumultuous moment of touch, I trace the tips to its origin, feeling them erect and ready for to pleased, unhook now and lie down, let me taste the eden before being banished forever.
Writings to Heaven 