Pseudopsychosis.

Desert, her eyes are morsels

to the jasmine and roses once grown from her wrists,

between the flowers in each white finger,

whilst the moon falls, leaves barefoot in winter,

    deserved for posturing an abyss 

this dance, like an atramentous sea;

woman

to the ebb and flow 

of flower bedded lips to firstborn tree,

knucklebones, wrists,

red-dusted each tress,

a harvest of glass adorned on her face,

calaveras

like milium sands; sanguinolent

leaves fall, fingers hold them tightly

in silent beats of her heart,

she soon sings, through each palliative thorn

each stem that twists and lives,

swelling in möbius dreams

to asylum under the dotted moon, 

ice creases like a porcelain doll,

she begets it; broken bones of the shore

never surrenders, the woman aglow;

deathly violets she kisses them once,

and they bloom.

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Written for the dVerse prompt: “Write a poem motivated by one of Catrin Welz-Stein’s images.”

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