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,
A spot where my flat heart attaches to a thing,
The others move to and fro,
Catching nothing but a gasp of air.
I stare at the blue ocean,
I stare at this spot of mine.
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