Pseudopsychosis.

The first chip in the axe
is in the ebony winter
fingers craving on the fresh
vein of apples,
madness, an old wine,

the tender briar
of the moon and drunk
morpheus to a shore
that never bleeds;
seduction to the red
strawberries / naked insanities
to veiled black feathers,
we’ll not wait
for the moon to commit suicide.
Have our tombs,
six months in winter,
six months in spring;

you handsome devil,
there is a dream impregnated
to drunk poetry and death of consciousness
like the bare feet of winter
killed by glass mirrors,
castanets of stone
to the cosmic breath
and bone, the tulle sandalwood
of this bride’s wrist
bound to Hades.

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Written for the Free Verse Revolution prompt: pomegranate seeds.

Mainly inspired by this song.

Very much unrelated, but the Little Writing Workshop of Horrors was recently ranked #38 out of 100 on the top 100 Writing Blogs and Websites in 2020 on Feedspot.

Featured in Sunday best for FVR.

Reposted for the dVerse open link night.

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