A spotless space

I have a place to myself,
where I die each day,
a cup of stale titter that
Diffuse my self worth in the corners.

I eat berries and walnuts.
Watching a ductile sunrise,
Slapping fingers of orange rust on my hip.
I see the magic growing.

It is afternoon,
I see thunder & stars simultaneously.
The wispy steps, smiling & morphing.

I have spot to cry to myself,
Winter tangerine,
A spot where my flat heart attaches to a thing,
Motionless,
Body apart.

The others move to and fro,
Catching nothing but a gasp of air.
I stare at the blue ocean,
Weeds growing,
Stories knitting,
I stare at this spot of mine.

W O R D S – A N D- L O V E

if my fingers break
 with the timeline of chiselled cheeks
 of lust for words
 of hunger for hunger

if turquoise veins
 open up,
 longitudes of the fallen mind
 like the rupturing of seeds
 without a sound,
 a mindless game
 What it shall be called?

the itch on my legs
 on my lips of words,
 a lover of minds
 click: and a word appears
 like a magic or a sonogram
 What it shall be called?
 My cleaved mind
 or the love of broken nails.

©WORDS- Devika Mathur/ MVS