The last thought.

very well CRAFTED!

Pseudopsychosis.

Rocks lay before

the last thought and solipsism;

Inside a frost stillness, decaying by the tree;

Forbidden—the serpent’s blood betrays

the bone fingers that lay upon stone.

Feral. What happened?

Illusory dreams

are mere being.

Devising a relent

to emerge outside

to the city, deprived of life

deprived of streetlight.

the lonely catkins

with a vulnerable shape

like a stilling ghost with discolored

flesh—lay quietly;

Disinterested, the blood pools

around the shore that kisses the leaf

alone in finality.

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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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