Pseudopsychosis.

Into a phantom sleep,
the icy dark blooms in phantasy
and it carried away to the sojourns of the past,
the mirage of a displaced winter;
In remembrance, each carved wind silences you,
piercing scattered sleep in the warmth
of the cedar tree's blood-fall from its leaves
teeming a light that hides from your eyes,
and you drift... You drift like the wind
fluttering into the river, into a gradual descent
of the desert mirage, the winter enslaved
as it stood.

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