beauty, creative-writing, fiction and poetry, Life, Love, Poems, poetry

Writing in a dream

You wear a skin of butterfly bush,
and bathe in a pond of musk,
a dark ocean slithers in your eyes,
with a breeze of warmth trespassing
flesh and bones.
An elixir of forgetfulness drips by the lips,
while potent desire brews on the tongue,
I sometimes wonder what your voice could do,
in the dark?
The collarbone is a carved symphony
with a pleasant hymn in the rain nights,
Have you ever touched something
and not see it melt and sublimate at the same time,
I feel sorry for your neck, for it is a sublime echo of loneliness,
awaiting a cold drizzle that drips to your waist slowly.
Your hands do not forget your love,
they leave imprints on fleshes of those very lucky.
Well I don’t believe in luck.
I believe in writing about them with my bare hands.
What about you?

– SB

beauty, creative-writing, Desire, Fiction & Poetry, Life, Love, Poems, poetry

Eden

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.

beauty, creative-writing, Fiction & Poetry, fiction and poetry, Heart, Life, Love, Poems, poetry, think

A room with no music

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?

beauty, Death, dream, fiction and poetry, Life, Love, Poems, poetry

Reasons

I cannot pass sentences,
for I am a city of dust and wreckage,
not abandoned but desolated.
Some of it dissolve in the terms as peace,
Nonchalantly.
I have tasted a valley of dust
with my tongue dried of elixirs of imagination,
Has anybody every told you that every dream
is a shivering icicle that tastes differently under a throat, used to a strange moaning at dawn.

I roam in shawl made of knitted regrets,
Ones with tongue that make my body perspire
in a heat of doomed past, my nipples are refuge of obedience, they disappear for the taste
lacking this irresistible warmth of winter.
I wish I could,
pass sentences,
and swallow cities.
I would have taken the a color of red,
Over whatever is left after dreaming a carnage.
Just to melt,

To disappear,
To be touched,
and caressed,
As all the dreams are reds,
the brights dissolved in darkest hues.

For those who stay up with no reason whatsoever.

beauty, Death, Fiction & Poetry, Heart, Life, Love, Poems, poetry, think

Forget

I kiss every sparkle of light
with my dark pupils:

A river smelling of forgotten touches
can only be cold,
my blood can only hold a limit of warmth
in every dream,

A little more
and my heart shall melt,

like the sun who devoured fire,
just to forget,
the kiss of the seas.

creative-writing, Death, dream, Fiction & Poetry, fiction and poetry, Life, Love, Poems, poetry

The Girl with the Ouija Board

Dark sinister whisperings
rouse my soul up,
‘Every Tongue has a demon
buried within its veins, for
it gives birth to thirst,
lust and blood.’
She told me before sleeping,

Archaic hymns, butchered lemons
drowned in vinegar, disappeared behind
a mist of lavender smelling candles,
apexed at pentagram made of saffron

I feel her curves turn cold,
the lips turn ominously black,
‘Eyes are windows to this world,
darkness is the passage to all other’
she keeps murmuring,holding my hand
till it is not she anymore.

I could sense it the way my hands are touched,
the way she removes her clothes then
and the way she kisses.
She never told her of her fetishes
and now I can’t even ask.

beauty, dream, Fiction & Poetry, fiction and poetry, Heart, Life, Love, Poems, poetry, Writings

Pebbles and Rain

It is quite obvious,
The way your tongue will feel
while reading this title:
slithering itself in a wet void.

Your nose now dreams of a petrichor,
The toes shall yearn for the wet grass.
Fingertips aching to scratch the moss
of the exiled pebbles somewhere,

How just a few words,
could tease your senses.

Yet you use a picture to interpolate
your creations

Why?

Writings to Heaven

Shashank Bhardwaj

Tag Archives: Life