Pseudopsychosis.

i feel the tophet
against my hands
like wheat;
wash this blood
between the ilk of the stars
for i’ve done
alone, I echo to the dream
for god I’ve craved
I am not, alone;
and the stars
hang to death’s crib,
the moon has not left;
paralyze,
the womb I’ve had
no son or daughter of mine;
I gleam,
 this candle, this mouth
and eye of lord
to lord—a sheath
of insanity in the dark
i, alone, foretell,
but do not look at me
under the suicided moon
and rocks at shore; i am not
the ghost in the absence of
blood—but the amputations
from war; given dark fruits,
bones abort into the ground,
we turn to ephemeral
wombs, these dead are
our own.

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Written for the dVerse prompt: Write a poem about or with “wheat” and its possible variations.

I had Macbeth in mind for this, particularly Lady Macbeth for some reason. Don’t ask me why I thought of this with wheat. I guess I cheated with the prompt, yet again.

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