Pseudopsychosis.

Death among a void,
             existence into the throat
of the flowers; but what is it about
the death of verse and prose
into the saurian rocks
             and night of memory
not myself? Quiet as baby’s breath.
             The fall of man
is a rarity from fear and falsity
             but as poetically a delusion
to capture in the snow like a child;
I reach to open my eyes
             to the tenor and tomb of
a sleep like Lazarus of the dead;
the cold exult, the connectivity
of mind is not reached, for language
             does not trace to the old trees
a forward of understanding.
The dark light
             stumbles in the topology
to the axis of beauty, oh, but it is not dead,
             in the arms of water
perched over lost prayers
in dark churches;
I am not blinded but wounded
             like a child of snow
who lies by the mouth of poets
             who leave their shadows
to the song.

I leave
in a deeper silence
             alone to the fossils without a place
                            and to the thought of others…
the ice pick at feet
to each other from each other;
therefore, death without a name
             but us.

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First appeared in Volume Seven of Visual Verse Anthology.

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