The Exit

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Representative illustration. Madras Courier. Image: 7MB
Is there anyway out of the mind? Devika Mathur’s poem sets the scene and asks some interesting questions.

Like an old epiphany,
my heart aches a song of lost periods of sleep,
a mirror so distorted to appreciate
and amidst all the hustle,
I comb my hair like a dead lady.
Peels of orange sun layered onto my womb,
defining a thing, unknown.

My mind stutters like a child,
Gulping the cobweb of chest aches and froth.
The beautiful sky has it
all wrapped around my small mind,
choking it to
ingest
ingest
ingest.



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