Last night, I sojourned in the warm fields of cherry blossom,
letting my silence convolve with the voiceless dreams.
I cried in a language, I never heard before.
The memory of my voice absconds
for a few days.
Leaving only regretful notes, of unending sabbaticals.
Nature never speaks, I have observed.
It just pours a volume of voices from its belly,
into a pot full of colors,
to melt and coalesce
for our eyes to fathom in silence.
So the next time, we lie on the bed,
don’t speak, just observe all of my colors
as I trace the aching fan dying out above.
Whisper to me then gently, if you wish,
of how does the grey mix in the volumes of smiles bright?
And yet never turns loud enough
for us to tremble and dissolve
in one another,
painting our silence
into this unspeakable color of love.
She doesn’t float,
but the water and the world around her move
to justify her movements.
I observe bleakly, like a child observing snow.
Those brown eyes, the red beak.
of how could it exist:
In a timeline,In our timelines,
We briefly intersect each other’s life
and now she is inside my head with those eyes.
The nights turn to days,
the days turn to sentences.
I greet her everyday.
She becomes a prayer for an atheist.
A Song for the voiceless.
A Dance for crippled.
Would she be thinking same?
as I observe her even now?
Is this a swan song?
Let her answer all.
Let her answer none.
The eyes speak for those who have learn to observe.
Let me observe.
Every tiny strand of this miniscule breeze
rummages through my bones, whispering voicelessly to drown in the unknown.
The kiss of light, is a birth of a memory.
The movement of tongue, is a voice of a dream
The feel of fingertips, is a breath never tasted.
Tell me how to forget all of them
and still exist, like a night without a moon.
– Shashank Bhardwaj
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 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.
© Shashank Bhardwaj
I swallow a room in my mind,
to digest its origins.
Its woodwork churns and mollifies,
I could feel my fingers full of sawdust and laughter,
lost handprints(possibly mine), from the dying
furniture and the floor caress my head.
You will always find a way to meet yourself,
once you are forgotten by everyone.
The lights are turning dim,
I do not know, how to serve light in a tall glass for myself?
Can you teach my fist to hold sands of darkness?
I shall learn somehow, to sprinkle when necessary.
You can learn anything, you want.
But remember to put off the light in the end.
The garden screams with its emptiness,
and my eyes could bear the shrieks.
Is this is how I forget your touch?
Without music? Without sleep?
A memory of your smell :
an enslavement, so clandestine.
It tunes my arteries to sing,
like the waves sing,
for purposes unknown.
I ebb away ,from this nonchalant madness
and turn into a moon-kissed star dust
wishing there were no sun or stars,
Cause I now abhor the lick of light.
It separates us unknowingly.
How come I still dream of you again?
At what cost?
At what price?
© Shashank Bhardwaj