An Abandoned School


Caress the disfigured syllables gently,
a rain of bullets should not deprive
them from a veil of modesty.

I stand near the tombstones of shadows
in a graveyard of light; seeing voiceless gods
smile from broken mirrors.
Did they bleed faith? I cared not to check.

A delusional existence gone too far-that brought
men raging with guns and children whimpering
in terror together, in a room.

While both of them prayed silently
accepting their unfulfilled destiny.

© Shashank Bhardwaj



Days worsen
as men leap onto me
in bodies riddled
with bullets
smelling of blood
shrieking mutely
eyes white
with a fear unfelt
the whole life
tongues desperate
for comforting lies
pleads for redemption
never comes out
of their silenced mouths
I silently pass on prayers
closing their eyes
to avoid seeing
the holy/unholy
gates they will
end up in their

© Shashank Bhardwaj

Afternoons to Nights

It is Valentines.

Working from home,
the monotony
has been strangulated mercilessly.

There is the absence of this world,
the air today smells like gasoline floating in
the fresh rain-wet grass.

My Universe is now out of the closet,
out of its hangovers like a horse
ready to tame the winds.

James Hetfield keeps telling me
through the speakers:
and I am Unforgiven too.

Maybe we all are for reducing
ourselves to squeaking mannequins
displayed to the world as relics
of over-flowing mannerisms,
to be sold to the highest bidder
who shall bring us out as a war chest
in times of insecurity.

Its Valentines, my love
Just go out
and fucking love yourself to death
before it is too late.

Madness Float


a breeze of guilt,
smells like remorse
in the morning

the descending fog camouflages
the slaying of the whispers

in a city this big,
everybody is a slave

skies watch patiently
to choose their meals:
the unfortunate and weaklings.

they are all up from sleep:
nature’s most intelligent creature.

the madness shall now float.

The Reaper Dies Slowly

An abandoned house,
with the chronicles of death painted on the walls.

In the shadows of its doom, the Reaper lurks
and watches over with merciless eyes.

Waiting for the Omnipresent,
to whisper a name,
for he shall devour the soul,
without a question.

Everything that he touches,
transcends from space and time,
to the spaces between the space.

He has never loved a flower
or held a newborn,
he has never cried or even laughed
and now he is dying slowly.

Of all the lives he has taken,
the Reaper is now slowly dying out of life,
and I cannot say
whether It is painful
or whether is beautiful,
but it is sad.

It should be.

The Lost Smell

an amicable smell
from the dried grasses
after the evening drizzle
and the turmeric laden idols,
that fuses into memories,
like reopening dust laden book,
in the house that greets waves
with eyes closed and an absence
of discord

even souls here burn
and wash away like a dried
incense stick on voyage
to nowhere and everywhere

the cows ring bells
in harmony and unison
there are no beds
but the dogs and humans
sleep alike
in comforts of a ground
that caresses unequivocally
in life and eternal death.

the smell has gone now
now concrete, glasses and woods
stink of success and fervor,
something terrible happened
really terrible.