The Rivers of What I Can’t Forget.

SUCH MAGICAL WRITING—SUCH A GIFT! ❤

Pseudopsychosis.

River of lone which grabs the bloodied, hanging bough upon a wisp dead tree
Where the darkened deep sea could bring me the tears from a shattered rock that shadows the sun,
As the petals of the red, blanketed flowers that would speak to us in bloom
Would fall dead at the bed of falling leaves that holds the lost womb of the willow tree,
That lovely stem from leaf where no river should pull along the tusks of ground,
And it should not break away from a frail dream. Why, must it be the river stream,
That curls along the frosted beams of the old axletree where it will be dried by the fog,

Where it will surrender to the slippery tears on a marred charcoal rock,
That has moss on it with little sticks, little sticks. It was a cold night.
The twig ties into the wilting wind…

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About Jonathan Caswell

Mr. Caswell has been composing poetry at least since High School. He has been on WORD PRESS for ten years and contributes to two other blogs beside this one. This blog has a Christian emphasis but all bloggers are welcome. Mr. Caswell chooses to---with permission--re[post material of interest

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