I swirl beneath the red leaves.
The song of my loneliness
Is the song of an earth,
abandoned by the sea.
I dream of a hearing a cacophony
near a dark sea, used to whispers
of silence. Fear is a death wish, disguised;
and not a ominous enemy.
I close my eyes
and the world stands still.
I wait for an another dream of ocean,
while standing in the desert of dreams,
where I killed, a thousand dreams
without shedding a tear.
– Shashank Bhardwaj
The next time,
I come down on you,
don’t just spread your legs
and caress my hair,
But make me hear your wetness
through the whispering,
make me see the desire through
your eyes,
make me believe,
that the way your nipples go erect,
or your skin burns with desire is not just our love anymore,
It is now an art.
– Shashank Bhardwaj
It is like soaking your feet
in an ocean’s wave
embracing the temporary belonging
of the cold water, tingling your toes.
You wish today, it rains now,
so you can forget about the waves and lie down
to dissolve in the sand grain by grain.
It should end the voices for some time.
Just a few raindrops now, A sound of a stream
slithering your skin , turning into a mute spectator of touch.
There is no need for caskets or pyres.
You are now in the womb of earth,
It’s the beginning of an end,
an end to all the beginnings.
You shall be everywhere:
in the crashes of waves,
in the sound of the rain,
in the howling of the winds,
and in the stars
that went astray while you were searching for me.
© Shashank Bhardwaj
Subvert this pleasant poetic dominion
for its rivers follow an enchanting metric of curves,
held together by the invisible lips of its inhabitants.
I am just a brain-dead corpse, with a past unerased,
I like to be washed away on unknown shores,
to begin again.
Love,
is that what you sell?
well I don’t buy it.
Especially on the days, I am sober.
© Shashank Bhardwaj
To stop this yearning,
as it overflows,
I hold my moans,
in a room full of people.
It’s a meeting
people are bored,
and your tongue is unmoved
for I hold my moans.
Beneath the desk,
you keep swallowing,
quenching your thirst
licking at the tips
even the end of balls.
I feel your breasts
caressing it,
flowing with it.
The outpouring should be swallowed
unless and until
you can think of something else
that might be possible,
while you lay below my desk,
half-undressed
and totally wet.
© Shashank Bhardwaj.
There were reasons.
These walls smelled of you,
The little sparrows lost their way.
A graveyard of flowers,
withered in silence.
Everything you touched,
had turned into an insoluble memory.
So I held my syllables,
I forgave the explanations.
I forgot the time.
For, If I whispered,
it will all be true.
You will be gone.
You will become something,
I cannot comprehend.
The absence will become an image.
For which, I believe,
I am not ready.
No one could ever be.
© Shashank Bhardwaj
It’s the driest summer,
the toes do not talk to each other.
The sweat arches its voyage
through the moulded shoulders.
Every moment is a warm echo,
a syllable whispered out by a black tongue.
I drink the silence out of your lips
and my capillaries soak some fire.
Your hands are a paradox of existence,
that decipher my purpose slowly.
Take me to your darkest room,
turn me into a memory
that resurfaces every time
when you close your eyes.
Make me a rain,
that wipes a summer away.
A rain, in which you slowly cried.
This cessation from reality
is obvious but necessary too.
Like your love once was,
When I was your crimson sky.
– Shashank Bhardwaj
Writings to Heaven 