Beneath dark God’s stares, the flowers alone give life to silence ideation; on our hands thrashes
waiting for our urns in the springtime, the ocean barely stirs between its skeletal waves—even on
our hands, it thrashes the dream.
I live in the drought, seeds extracted and exorcised in the rain; we die. I grew from father’s
and in the ashes of the starlight, the night feasts on boney thorns that picked from our hands,
thrashes the dream.
Volatile, the ocean deciphers hypnotic waves in salt winds, inkling forgiveness
freshly invited, but only fertile in the sewn in postponed light from the sun that thrashes our
Slice the seeds with your hands, laughter stole the born, laugh in his face too; the sea panders
like the soul, and we taunt its injustice to our depravity that thrashes the dream.
Aromatic ice chips on the glass, revels in unbridled chaos; a bride’s brigade of blood,
laughter’s pride claws instead, appearing soon left for dead like the thrashes of a dream
that keeps me awake as I stare out the window blankly, bled the silence in abandon
a shame of lonely venom that echoes back into the wind from a refracted mind, thrashing like the
I had the other night; I trembled, knowing it’d be the death
of me if I kept repeating it over and over, that thrashed dream;
it kills a part of me intimately, curled and muting; I carve my skeletal fingers to the ebbs
of shadows that reverse, surfacing thoughts in a tempest cold, thrashing like the dream.
© 2020 Pseudopsychosis All Rights Reserved.
First appeared in Variant Lit’s Second Chance Anthology in mid 2020.