Pseudopsychosis.

At the flares of rivers, flames crackle studded and dead when they withdraw from the cold. The darkness recedes over the bejeweled haycocks crying, as my torrent of blood flourishes like a blue weeping violet, rock-strewn to the near hill-side at midnight; I pardoned myself to the wall flowers as the wind vanishes above the chimneys with the grotesque sticky saps on the creaks of spotted ghosts where sunlight can lather. Dead dullness was a funny thing as I looked over to the craters on that yellow moon, flowed over on angry rivers, laid silently to the sombre, the pre-autumn that darkens in its afterglow as a newborn. Choked in ashheaps (and red holly wisps) and sun struck forget-me-nots in scars, suffering from pain, I go to the misted ocean of my wound.

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