Hues of Horror.


The tepid air slowly sheds
its orange hue; collected throughout
the year while caressing the lips of the sunlight.
Half past dawn, it refurbishes its desire from
the warm currents of a sea, I never loved.

It haunts me still, the taste of salt,
that lingers over my coward tongue.
That is how I have learned,
to be a man of few words.

winds, salted and warmed
still, lick my neck as a mistress without eyes
as I sleep naked; sweating profusely, dream after dream.
This taste of darkness, I do not recognize anymore.
It is my shadow perhaps, clasping his
hands over my eyes, drying my throat.

A whirlwind has drowned my words
into an abyss of untasteful rust.
My shadow laughs voicelessly
in a room full of mirrors
as I seek him with my eyes closed.

It is just the beginning,
red hues of light disappear
The waves now are not beautiful.
They never were.
Do not bury me in the ocean.
I will never make it to the shore.
I somehow know.


© Shashank Bhardwaj

Half Sleepy Memories

my pillows turns cold
the tongues go dry
an uneasiness dissolves in the air
as it realizes a possibility
where you turn into a shadow
with no face,
your laughter that does not end in
kissing me for no reasons
our cuddling sleeps together do not turn into memories that are so close to edges of realities and so deep in the pools of dream.

the shades of skies melt,
it rains,
and I am standing alone
waiting for it all to be nightmare.
waiting for you to hold me from behind
telling it will be alright soon.
Go to sleep now
and don’t forget my chocolates.

© Shashank Bhardwaj

Half a Bottle of Whiskey

Let me douse a fire
that dissolves in water
by mixing it with my blood
in small sips of uncontrollable desire.

The insides shall burn, I know,
I have been there
as the brain blazes up slowly
in the incipient flames inducing
a stupor of warming numbness.

Is this how you erase memories?
Is this is how you conjure them?

The valiant bout
of drunken madness ends
as now the red-blooded eyes
seek the cold white embrace
of A Moon, hidden in clouds.

Chalices have grown cold.
Snow fondles the dark greenery outside
in a cold choking blanket of doom
that leaves behind a lullaby of silence.

The jeweled decanter
whispers to me
at the dead of the night,
as the fire, it holds
now craves for the decaying fire
within me.

I am not myself now,
I am a shadow used to the
bodily actions of a decaying body.
I am submissive and weak tonight
to this body that dances in the fire,

Incomplete scribbles still remain desolated
praying for a bloom
in the wake of the terrible hangover.
to be remembered somehow.

Is this how you become a poet?
Is this how you forget poetry?

© 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