Promised Children.

Dance to the frivolous melodies,
the time still remains.
We are still children,
sobered under the sun,
sobered by the rain.

A memory is a drop wiped away from the lips,
A potent taste was forgotten on purpose.

To become a child, forget your hands first.
The rain envelops the waves of time,
so learn to close your eyes,
long enough without sleeping
without drifting without crying
and the present will wash off itself
You will be on a ground,
with fresh wet grass,
Your dog still alive,
the cakes do not make you fat,
it’s beautiful,
as it should be,
as I was promised,
long ago.

© Shashank Bhardwaj


A Dream of Laughing Fishes


I think I am back again
somewhere beneath a cold restless wave
where the smell of a forgotten regret lingers.

A thousand eyes map my dread
and serve it back to my face
with a voiceless discontent.

I swirl like a newborn,
till I forget the smell of the skies.
An embellishment for the stars
seeing me slip into an oblivion.

“One’s misery is a supper of pleasure for another”
my demented grandma used to blurt.

She loved eating fish
and now the fishes are laughing,
the limb-lacking unbearable slimy creatures,
are choked with laughter, over my unending dread.

“Kill a fish yourself, let its blood cleanse
your dreams.”
said the friendly psychiatrist.

the crazy fucker didn’t even know,
that it all began from there,
from those very struggling eyes
near to the gills.

© Shashank Bhardwaj

In the Rain.


Have I told you lately?
Of how I trace your scent
every time it rains violently.

This very ground trembles today,
nonchalant to our unending sighs.
We were the two inescapable shadows,
now we drift away from each other
into an incomprehensible darkness.

On this edge of dissolution,
a mere push of time,
dissolves us as intangible memories.
This air, drenched in regret
wraps us in a blanket of past,
to let us abandon our beginnings,
as a feast for this immoral rain.

Our hands caress the untouched remains.
We forget the skies and the cold water
trickling down our backs.
In a blink, we finally become
the smell of the earth,
after the rain, that is always full of love,
but no one knows why.

© Shashank Bhardwaj

Trespassing within myself


It begins with
a melodious blur
as a taste of forgetfulness slithers
over my humble skin.

A yearning evolves slowly,
to disappear away
from this meaningless pursuit of flesh,
we are trapped by our existence
and nothing else.

I trespass within myself,
in search of a purpose,
in the hidden sanctums of my delusion,
where blues waves greet my feet,
and the sky made of ice
howls with terrible winds, at my timidity.

It never rains,
But I always forget to stride aimlessly,
these hungry eyes are served
with sumptuous visions,
and till my hands bleed
this hallucination copulates
with my reality.
I finally learn to float
within myself.

I pen all of it down,
in the night
and call them as Art
in the morning.

© Shashank Bhardwaj

Art Credits – Delusion by Dorina Costras

Colors of Unspeakable Love


Last night, I sojourned in the warm fields
of cherry blossom, letting my silence convolve
with the voiceless dreams.

I cried in a language, I never heard.
In the memory of my voice, absconding
for quite a few days. Leaving only regretful notes,
of unending sabbaticals.

Nature never speaks, I observed.
It just pours a volume of voices from its belly,
into a pot full of colors, to melt and coalesce eventually,
for our eyes to fathom in silence.

So the next time, we lie on the bed,
don’t speak, just observe all of my colors
as I trace the aching fan above, dying out slowly,

Whisper to me then slowly, if you wish.
of how does the grey mix in the volumes of smiles bright?
and yet is not loud enough, for us to tremble and dissolve
in one another, painting our silence
into an unspeakable color of love.


© Shashank Bhardwaj


So tell me
just through your eyes
how was it?
when I conjured a wave
in your flesh through touch

When my hands yearned
to be honey to float over your breasts
tracing your nipples, delving your waist,
evaporating away from a meaningless existence
Did you drown the way you should?
When I was inside you,
and we were birds flying in a sky made of fire
with wings melting away like butter.

Can you tell me,
through just your eyes?
through just your touch?
through just us?


My words were glass
for 14 days.

they shattered over papers
and metallic typewriters,
even on those,
warm as sun-bathed honey.

I somehow learned to arrange
the broken brights.

Let me know, if you can
see yourself in them.


© Shashank Bhardwaj

Back from the first long writer’s break, was totally buried in work. It’s time to be back to writing again. 🙂