Monday, April 15, 2019

day EIGHT HUNDRED and SIXTEEN


Lost

What is it that lives in my mind?
a susurrous, humming twig.
Detached to be detached further.

My mind quarrels, 
with numbers, duplex nocturnal facets.
It's happening all over again.

A quiet place to rest is often a hidden door,
 a hidden door like a skin of mirrors.
Crackling noises that run into my blood,
making it thick, making it think.
 What is it that eats me up each day?

Like a parasite, a lost point of solitude.
What is it that sits and stares at my knuckles,
your mind counting numbers, still.
What is it?

--Devika Mathur

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