Pseudopsychosis.

Father of gunmetal, fingers and sap

kneeling to the blood-red of our faces

from my formaldehyde Grandfather,

in the black elms, a crown of sun pencils

on white skin, now the eyes I find of the lagoon

were treed in artichoke; father’s eyes are mine,

the shore is from the foolish matriarch, babushka’s daughter

and herself.

Occam’s razor had slit feet: bloodlines cannot drown us

from ancestor or ancestress to become their very worst.

Sand-thrown, gallows cripple upon the neck

the eyes that hanged upon father’s head,

burning, gnawing,

into the oak’s edge of wasteland knees

creaking and cracking to a child of stone,

less moonlight on the prey,

the swoon its death will bring, gripping no sea to swim

or ankle to grab quaked with sparred skins; steppes void

in ox eyes, a ghost of dead men,

what fools we must be to believe

that these things can change.

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Written for the dVerse prompt. I chose prompt 1.

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