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Best Poems Written by Puroja Bhattacharya

Below are the all-time best Puroja Bhattacharya poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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The Blood of Forgotten Oaths

Steel-bound words once carved in stone, Now rust in whispers, dead and alone.

The oaths we swore in fire and ash, Lie shattered now—mere ghosts of past.

A blade was drawn, a wound was made, Yet scars still whisper, cold and frayed.

Beneath the weight of silent screams, The echoes writhe, the soul redeems.

Ink turns black beneath the skin, A tale of ruin carved within.

The hands once strong now shake in dust, Their bones betray their hollow trust.

A crimson sun, a starving tide, A love undone, a fate denied.

The night is long, the shadows call, They dance in halls where secrets fall.

A requiem hums in fractured breath, Where promises drown and love meets death.

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The Blade that Never Heals

A dagger’s kiss is cold and clean, But betrayal carves where none have seen.

It does not bleed, it does not scream, Yet haunts the soul in every dream.

A wound that festers, black and deep, A secret ache the heart must keep.

The hands once warm now twist the knife, A silent end to faith and life.

The tongue that swore in silver tones, Now drips with venom, sharp as bones.

A promise shattered, glass in veins, A love undone by whispered chains.

The eyes that swore they’d never stray, Now watch as hope is stripped away.

A wound unseen, yet felt so raw, A phantom claw that grips the jaw.

For daggers rust and wounds may close, But betrayal lingers—no one knows.

It wears no face, it speaks no name, Yet burns the soul in silent flame.

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In the mirror's gaze

Each day I stand before the glass,
A meeting where truths unmask.
She waits for me with patient eyes,
Reflecting what I oft despise.
She shows me depths I never knew,
What I’ve ignored, what I misconstrue.
Her silent empathy, her tender care,
She cries for me, always there.
“It is okay, mate,” her whispers say,
Guiding me through shadows grey.
At times I hate, at times I adore,
This bond—a struggle, a rapport.
Unique she is, the soul I see,
No one knows her better than me.
Through love, through tears, she molds my core,
My compass in life—forevermore.

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The Language Of Shadows

Yet where there were curses , you will find scars, Where I found my secrets, you will see my quiet lies. What pain hides, it also still shows Its fact hoed through ruined trails it snares.

In shadowed dark, a fire still gleams, An ember bright that even pain redeems. The knives that gut are mirrors, clothed in mourning, Reflecting strength once buried beyond understanding.

We learn to draw a sharp edge by hand, To forge a shield of what one cannot stand. For shadows whisper stories, dark but bright, Of powers found where light is scarce and slight.

Behind the door, the soul finds light turn up, In shadows' dance, it learns to rise for you. The night is long, though wounds are won, a future breathes, Where time’s embrace, in life, lays true to its sheathe.

From hushed hallways where voices of shadows call, A symphony of victory rings with thrall. The heart that braved each bitter eclipse. Now throws its dreams on dawn’s gentle lips.

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Love Wears a Funeral Veil

Love and sorrow walk as one, A bond unbroken, never undone.

For every kiss, a tear will fall, A whispered ache, a lover’s call.

The heart that loves must bear the weight, Of joy entwined with sorrow’s fate.

For love is cruel, it does not spare, It lingers long, yet leaves despair.

It wears a veil, it hums a tune, A melody of love and ruin.

Its hands are silk, its lips are fire, It sings of hope, then buries desire.

A lover’s touch, a mourner’s cry, A love that lives, yet begs to die.

It carves its name in skin and stone, It builds a throne, then sits alone.

For every vow, a wound is made, A promise carved, a price unpaid.

Yet in the dark where sorrow stays, Love still lingers, love still sways.

It wears a veil, it hums a tune, A melody of love and ruin.

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The Past Is a Graveyard

Do not turn back, the past is grave, Its echoes haunt, its hands enslave.

The road behind is lined with ghosts, Their voices call, their sorrow boasts.

Each step you take, the past will plead, But forward lies the path you need.

The hands of time will twist and pull, Yet looking back will take its toll.

The doors you closed, the bridges burned, Will whisper still, though none return.

The past is cruel, it does not care, It waits to catch you unaware.

It wears the scent of rotting dreams, It hums in corridors unseen.

Its fingers claw through dust and bone, It sings in voices not its own.

The faces lost, the dreams decayed, Will drag you down where shadows fade.

So walk ahead, don’t turn around, For ghosts will pull you to the ground.

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Anatomy of Silence

After poem for "How Do I Love Thee?" by Elizabeth Barrett Browning


I offered you trust, an open door without locks, My heart lay exposed, vulnerable on the rocks.

You entered with a grin, words sweet as honey, But your exhale was ice, your caress felt phony.

You spoke of my glow, then left me in the dark, Filled my mouth with verse, but your questions missed the mark.

I poured truth in your glass, you gulped it down, Then smashed it to pieces, leaving me with a frown.

Your grin sang me to sleep, your gaze was a trap, You stripped me bare, wrapped in a spiritual wrap.

You cut deep where no looking glass could see, A chuckle laced with poison, from which I could not break free.

You embraced my hush, then made it howl, Left traces in my nights, making me scowl.

Now I walk with whispers you would not claim, Building self-worth from the leftovers of shame.

I grin like embers—cool and exact, I have learned the price of sweetness and tact.

So if you return to sample what is left, You will meet a girl who has swallowed her theft.