April.

ISN’T IT DELIGHTFULLY DEEP? ❤

Pseudopsychosis.

Dirty rain

Upon the feathers; it is April,

Among the years broken in winter

When it was not winter,

And we could not have been alone;

This is where we dream

And it is where we no longer relent

In sorrow and regret;

The teeming of ice chips

Beneath our feet—moved like blood,

We occlude the protest; Mother Nature’s hymn

Is the birdsong when silence descends…

(Escaped upon ancient ruins)

The blood at your feet,

There will be no hyacinths for us

Among the yellow-lit roads…

In abandoned cities,

Not first or last,

In figments of papaya seeds

In our hands as we pass

The undergrowth at morning.

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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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