Pseudopsychosis.

Glassed petals rise like small hands
After the rain above the blood-red
River-clouds, each iris rifts in moon-glow
Down to the blight of the moon-rise I shunned
Ether dressed in her black dress, stood a leaf left
Never gazing beyond the twirling veins
In all the flowers and the rain to make winter by roots
Awaiting summer, fecund flowers will grow like Medusa’s head
of snakes.

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