Revere, this blessed silence,

For I shall slip into your thoughts

once again, but this time,

without a face or voice.

Contemplate the cause,

For every bone

tickles a question

when the sky is this dark,

‘A pang of heart’ was a fool’s discovery,

For he ignores every vision that might be real,

For him the water is still full of air,

and the air still full of hope.

Before the drowning begins with his foolish steps, the dissonance muffles down slowly, choking the sweet breath, as promised


An unsettling deciphers

a state of silence :

When every mirror sells illusion,

How can you trust a pair of dreamy eyes?

A stoic whimper,

A mist that smells like the sun,

A kiss that compels of it’s origin,

Carry all of them till the day of reckoning.

You never know, when you shall be healed,

A rebirth is just a meaningless smile away.

Isn’t it?


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 with 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.

An Ode to Dying Winter

What is this heart?
if not a emotion driven by a flood of questions?
I lay shirtless in an unknown darkness,
Somebody robbed me of a known darkness,

Every nerve has a memory
Hence, I have no words to describe winter,
It reminds me of months of change,
It now reminds me to assess of the change.

There are no pomegranates or apples in my gardens,
It is just the ice soaked grass,
my toes hurt when I trespass my property.
For what?
I cannot change the end of winter,
If Winter was here, can Spring be far behind?

Nobody should ever listen to the aches of comfort,
of a winter of campfire and whiskey
You get used to it slowly,
Now the bottles are empty,
Some broken,
Some lost.

I wait in the edge of a land of disappearing snow,
thinking was it all worth it?
Yes it was.
Somebody tell my heart once again.This.

– SB

A Fixation

An orange bliss breaks billowing :
the blue evening, passing out,
choked by warm hands colored in flames.

Witness the sky
tying this blue brightness consensually,
behind it’s cloud back.
Sea dipped fingers feeling the warmth closing in,
as flames tease the air around, with uneven breaths.
Maybe this is how, It rains in winter.

a little skewness, such as this,
shames the clear ponds
and the monuments still glistening
with untouched marble
bearing the tasteful reflection.

But I sit aghast,
and perplexed over such a fixation.
The nights shall be a little difficult :
dreaming of soft ropes,
of slowly kissing the haunting eyes.

– Shashank Bhardwaj