Pseudopsychosis.

I.

the blood-tree grows silent
i question my tenderness
or the strange faces that stare back

swathed in formaldehyde-liquids
embryo of the calf, the bird,
my mind relishes their eyes
hypnotically le mystère as fluorescence
runs

i fidget first with memory,
second, as i grew in orange groves 
a self-inflicted lobotomy 
like vines and i stopped talking 
when all i felt was sadness

II.

I dreamt again last night
upon the meaning of this
eye contact; it was nothing,
had been perfumed, had been a split second
in the room’s façade
alone 

impatient, posturing brokenness
as in the bell jar stolen from my hands
when all there is left
is trust
i only have sensibilities in
sempiternal madness.

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Written for the 08/26/2021 dVerse MTB prompt.