In the liminal state of mind I often find myself in,
I see doors of ebony, mahogany and teak.
Gliding towards them on a sheet of incandescent affirmations,
I hesitate before knocking : elm, ash, oak or beech?
Eventually, I knock on the pine.
Soft under my calloused knuckles.
And I hear it, that whisper.
The whisper of the voice inside my head.
The voice I sing haunted lullabies to,
The voice that voices my regrets.
It cradles me in its motherly arms,
A sensation so unfamiliar enveloping me.
It soothes my skin with warmth and comfort,
Slowly filling the void in me with benevolent sins.
And although I know she sedates me,
This cruel honey-like voice.
In my liminal state,
She grounds me to the harsh reality,
While gently allowing me to transcend time and space.
-Megha Bhartiya, InkSoakedSoul 💜
© Megha Bhartiya, Inksoakedsoul.wordpress.com