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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