Countless


 
 
 

 How many times do I shift my bodily postures?
 from a room so cold, so absolute,
 to a room full of hopes.
 There is a never -ending system
 of dying things in here.
 I move like a ‘banjaran’ 
 wishing for dead leaves,
 painted auburn sky
 sunlight hitting my pale, loose skin,
 I move to hide my burnt scar,
 throbbing now
 layers of cold ripped moths biting each other.
 How many times do I slip from this moment?
 wrapped into a crochet woven by memories,
 How many times do I defy my existence?
 Fragments of red – like winters forming on my chest.
 How many I times I become countless?
  
  (banjaran- a wanderer)
  
   

I would appreciate if you could check out my poetry collection Crimson Skins through the links below. Read it on Kindle maybe? Share and spread.:)

https://store.pothi.com/book/devika-mathur-crimson-skins/- INDIA

Crimson skins- US

CRIMSON SKINS- BOOK DEPOSITORY

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On Dreams

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The dreams have started to spread

thudding under my chin and elbow

the dance of a song,

a bridge of warm laughter.

We lick each other

in warm oil and nights,

wet sheets and trees of hope

A final leap

and a levitating scratch on skin,

it crawls under my slippery neck

the loose, aging skin

lost in parameters of transcendence and sins,

Abandoned by all

it has not the face of people,

of mundane , temporary people.

Brown, molten and crisp

in eternal restlessness,

always rising

traversing night and days.

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A few years back, I was lost in the era of pain and wound, emotional and physical reverberation. Times that made me crippled, head full of variety of aches and then I decided to print my emotions into a voice louder than my pain. I wrote my book with labor, love and sweat. I am grateful for the lovely, heartfelt reviews it received. If you want you can still read my book Crimson Skins on Amazon, Kindle available worldwide. I would appreciate it. Thanks.

Flower and Fruits

These words will arrive in formations

about my sleep

about the morning fresh dew.

about Point of indulgence. Crisp periphery of sliced strawberries.

About dying Flowers and Fruits.

Scratch, fingers across belly button.

Finding appropriate word is almost like flowing incessantly.

Organs fluttering.

My words will occur in shapeless boundaries

with lanterns and lost sheets of clouds.

A few about moments. A few about tiny swirls of acrylic seasons.

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Would love to see you reading the poetry collection I published during the last year. Available worldwide now!:)