The blood won’t spit dreams- it spews sideways,
Spreading shades of cellular hopes-
I see no tunes or signals,
The cacophony of bipolar lives- the hustle and the dreams,
the balance between the moths and butterflies,
A stone turned into a Goddess-
What does it mean now?
Does it make some sense? The entire
mathematical vocabulary,
a prowling part of the sky falling into my lap now,
Now, now, now——-
I do not wish to sleep any more; I do not wish to eat any more
All I wish is a magenta corner-
quiet spewing songs of memories of us.
I seek the balance beneath my thigh and above my eye- a circular ring of abstract notion-
There- I call my God with power,
I see my God with cells: flesh: and hands:
A meadow of quarterly meetings.
Shared By: Devika Mathur
