Pseudopsychosis.

Solitude

arrayed in language 

unnoticed in its death,

as the leaves survive 

the siege of winter,

taloned with wounds

rejoicing in the wind.

In my dreams,

there is silence

as the flowers die

through our eyes;

whispers held,

empty,

beneath our feet

of the grey stone,

leave a rock 

after death

they exist

unlike flowers

for eternity. 

We will not look back,

as it will flood back somewhere

within our minds,

and beneath the permission tree

as it bleeds in the escape

of water and wind,

it disturbs the quiet

as winter hides

in ecstacy 

that compels 

us to look away,

and die tired deaths

each day.

As we watch 

everything else in absence 

waking up alone

to that return 

of the dream,

conveying 

instinct,

everything from the refrain,

the animals,

& blood,

eyes cannot escape

the hunt;

the black persimmon leaves fall.

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