Devika Mathur writes

Shapes and patterns

This entire life is flat,

With blue sonograms floating.

A white ghost travels my mind,

Puncturing the ambrosia of nectars.

My walls are chipped.

My nail clutter is lost,

As if I can not be mended.

Sickness, weed.

Palms on my belly,

Trying to uphold the lines of spring.

Trying to smooth down

The freckles of winter mourn.

And,

Analysing is deceptive often,

A human eye is a stitch of time.

And we end up in shapes and patterns.

--Andy Golub