I want to hear impatient moans
everytime I feel your skin with my tongue,
For I am blind to it’s contours and wetness,
My hands only tends to the voices of flesh,
I silence the desires with my fingers
Till they wet or tired
Or both.
© Shashank Bhardwaj
A distance between nothingness
and hushed whispers, measured in silence,
where you throw your slippers away
and drown into the shallowest pond you could find,
just to disappear for a moment.
There is desolated piano
somewhere in between,
shedding its skin,
living off the mosses.
your hands do not remember
the melody, they have turned
into voiceless eyes.
The music never fades though,
the breath never ends,
the skin never melts.
there are no banks of hope,
It is just you and an emptiness within
mating shamelessly, producing progenies
that never stop wailing.
You want to swim,
You want to drink the pond away,
but the thirst dried ages ago.
So you wait for Sun,
To end it brightly.
Someday.
Shashank Bhardwaj
I was born out of a blood-bath
and will turn to dust someday,
I shall finally laugh voicelessly
while resting on a bed of fire.
The horizons shall still be untouched
their throats shall still bleed
as the sun sets in tired
by this never ending melancholy.
A thousand dogs shall still be homeless
their hopeful eyes still clueless
The men shall still be reckless,
The women shall still be remorseless,
The earth shall still be lifeless,
This cycle shall still be pointless.
© Shashank Bhardwaj
Trace her curves
and the silhouetted hips,
the soft swollen breasts
await the touch
at the hidden crevices.
The nectar drips
begging to be explored
by the glazed fingers
and thirst ridden tongue.
It should be long dry summer,
Let us be wet like never before.
Writings to Heaven 