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I was the one
with bruises and stones
in my mirror-eyed reflection
a reflection of you, mother
the cacophony of time and hours
floating inside your eyes,
the heaviness of pebbles and rituals.
Your arm mocked your cerulean breast,
with its swollen stigma of memoirs
and some pictures, vintage.

I combed your concave mouths
of dripping forlorn fractures,
like a staircase bleeding
or a topology reversed and processed.
I am a soft song in your black-knitted bun
a piece of your chipped nail,
a sunflower, kissed and harassed
inside your turbulent head.

A cauldron, and a day full of nights
hid beneath your muffled chin,
a mole hanging beneath your shouts and dim- dreams.
Mother, you are a pool of madness
and a point blank.
Obscure, shadowy your tongue knits tears
and a sweet thread of touch, impeccable.

Sometimes, I glint in your orange censure
a pattern of love and you,
Your body is a dream.
and I fall in your loops of laps.
the uncontrollable seizures,
the uncontrollable laughters,
Scarlet red wires.
it’s all you, it’s all you.



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my valiant soul

A dreamer and a believer for the upliftment of women rights. A published poet, author, writer. Believes in dancing and cooking amazing food for hungry souls at times. Loves to write and write till the moon is satisfied. My writings can be found at Visual Verse, Indian Periodical, Sick Lit mag, Duane's Poetree, Thistle magazine, among various others. Curator of Olive Skins.

48 thoughts on “Time&You”

  1. If you have not, and if you can, you should read this to your Mom.

    You’ll cry (if you’re anything like Me) when you do so and she will too.

    It’s captivatingly beautiful.

    Liked by 2 people

      1. Peace. It’s a poem full of emotion and when I write poems of this nature, especially about my Mom (given our history), I cry when reading them to her.

        You’re most welcome.

        Liked by 1 person

  2. I’m speechless after reading this. How well you have defined each and every expression, mannerism, behavior of a mother with your metaphors. How eyes are a reflection of her pain and our heads a cacophony of her voices.How she is bogged down by traditions and customs.
    How a topology of mother defines that of her children and her softness in her gestures.
    How her crimson laughs can fill the deep corners of our soul.
    Its all about her, our mothers.Bravo Devika!!

    Liked by 3 people

  3. It is not often i read a piece of poetry and hear it in the writers voice. you have pour out of your own heart a piece of you, that pulls me and other readers in. I hope this was therapeutic for you. thanks for sharing

    Liked by 1 person

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