Pseudopsychosis.

A fissured father of stone,
poisoned by the vale, a bridal’s helm
rushing through the billow waves, I billow
blood from the clouds, awaiting for the frost
dead uncles in May with his ghost; dementing
in Autumn, what wilderness flooded
to the unvisited dream, the ocean’s ungues
cutting through faint music
like a lotus growing ill—I dream
than trench the hoar frost; I billow,
I nest into the mad tree,
leafed into the hoof-beats of the
poet’s nakedness, I don’t have anything left,
you can spend years in the abyssal hunt,
the haven of our gods like an apparition
feeding the rain—the poison I fall
and then hatch into the splintered egg
a void is born; ossify our dug up ghosts,
in icy air around the red chariot of our bones.

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Written for the dVerse prompt: Today we will incorporate music in our poem from the perspective of a synesthete.   Create your own Symphony.  Infuse your musical experience when listening to a band, artist or musical genre, with colors, sounds & textures.   Write a song filled with colors.

I was really inspired by the song Still Ill by The Smiths.

Reposted 7/07/2021.

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