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Through the Front Door
by Devika Mathur

I have a wooden structure that looks after me,
a thick shield of elastic worries,
a poet’s mind locked inside the carving,
I often stare at my front door with a madness slapping across the air,
the room stands empty with a fever of different music
and a lullaby of painted comfort stands there
disguised as this door.
My left arm often collides with the knob,
strange to me, I see myself through different holes of the door,
I eat my sins as I perceive my mind through it.
This door talks to me during vacant nights
I remember a visitor coming once and praising the carving of this front      door,
I did not listen to any of it
I had my own notion of things floating through its hole,
the swollen memories of the past, the bruises I had, the velvet dreams I      had
My interpretation is of murals stuck on its face with a valiant varicose      hanging above it.
a nurse, a doctor once walked through it
treating the broken shards of the mind,
a horror of forlorn mind that people are afraid to speak of.
I see things happening, flower blooming through this door,
a cotton field entrapped in this lilac mouth.

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: The door acts like miracles, memories.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Devika Mathur resides in India; she is a published poet and writer. Her work has been published in Madras Courier, Dying Dahlia Review, Pif MagazineSpillwords, Duane’s PoetreePiker PressMojave heart reviewWhisper and the Roar amongst various others. She is the founder of surreal poetry website “Olive skins” and writes for