Morning Snow. (Prose)

I’D BANK…ON THIS SNOWY PROSE! EXQUISITE!

Pseudopsychosis.

Primordial of the language havocs the ghost, havocs the charring wood, as it hushes the daylight by the opaque fog above a motionless hillock, and I feel the strangeness of the fire arose from the bejeweled brooks, and faded, golden rivers, strung by the heat, I wander as the ocean meets the shore and I go into the peaks of the world, and its hoary, gentle winds during the Autumn pasture. It is the diamonds in the wood-pile, trembling with stones on the trail; It is everything to the piled snow. Dreams come, and sometimes, I miss them all the same. I go as the Autumn into the yellow roads, fairer than the stirred frost, fairer than her skin, and beyond the harvest of flowers by the morning snow.

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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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