Vacant voices

A moment elongates itself like a thick sleet of froth
thin as a membrane often,
it’s a horrible need to ingest the petals
something that slits the skin and tongue,
watch the phantom of atmosphere,
how incorrigible swirl waft the cheekbones.

Often voices stuff my vacant rooms with leftover light.
Voices like “Oh you love”…voices with intense roots.
I retrace footsteps back in my lawn, trying to discover my untamed breaths,
trying to burn the unlit clump of log( wet and careless things are beautiful).
I often feel like a ghost, entrapped like a white air
tip-toeing in quiet hush old house.

I am broken. i am pale with an ever-growing quench of burning thighs.
I am what i am anyway. Lost. Amorphous. Melting.


The way it slips

 Life bleeds
with vacuum and spaces,
backwards, a concave slope
mouths of thickening slurps.
it confesses its leakage
each day, puncturing my navel
a forgotten momentum
of involuted threads
of rising and falling.
Life, bleeds and bleeds.
a copious bruise of camouflage.

©image and words- Devika Mathur/MVS