By the canefields at dusk.

SWEET!

Pseudopsychosis.

From the hills coiled in mist dreaming alone 
Between the slipping isolation to touch the world where it beautifuly parts forever
By the canefields at dusk hungry in the foreign twist
Of the silent moon as my only light fluttering the picturesque leaves
And houses with old lakes full with heaps of rain
In darkened winds split by fruits, the mouth of blue rivers lay beside the faint dew
Plagued with divinity in low light—a handful of shadows throughout the honey deserted womb,
That confines the slipping river away
Abandoning the winter with shame as moss eats
The crow above the branch, and I could mistake the reflection
As a region birthed of haunting cigarettes playing in the streets
From the darkened split waters, rocks clumsy in the absent wind of the stream,
Into the mirage upon the sand like persimmon
Into sliding daydreams, the searing frost of poison

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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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