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

The Russian Parable

An area collapsing
into wise beards of giants,

Each, a decimation and integration
an oxymoronic existence,
mix life and death,
some unbearable winters,
some poverty
and tall glass of vodki,
you invent an utopia,
that is still alive in dusts
and pages.

a dream of winter, isn’t that easy:
Siberia is dying of touch of warmth
Petersburg is selling Vodki by it’s heartbeat.
Its still just old farms and innumerable counts.

Beautiful women still detested by beauty,
Brave men still abhorred by the truth,
Death still irritated by shallowness, we create,

I brisk past Moscow,
Kremlin is still the same,
my bones ache by the walk,
Never Invade Russia in winter?
One never remembers.

  • Shashank Bhardwaj
beauty, Death, Drinks, Fiction & Poetry, fiction and poetry, Life, Love, Poems, poetry


This guy got me thinking,
through delirium and despair
with sprinkles of madness over
a flesh with a weak heart sewed
over layers of hope.

the ones who write about uncertainty,
death and creating hope out of it are the real writers that made me feel something.

Dostoevsky was the zenith of it.

The Rest writers nowadays are selling themselves, mushrooming like burger joints, using layers of cheesy love and regret to get noticed.