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The Moon and the Yew Tree

The trees of the psyche are dark

By bishnu prasadPublished about a year ago 4 min read
The Moon and the Yew Tree
Photo by Tom Gainor on Unsplash

This is the radiance of the brain, cold and planetary.

The trees of the psyche are dark. Their sporadic branches,

like broken arms illuminated by X-ray color, offset by longing.

They take structure in manners no one but specialists can unravel.

The light is blue. The perception of the outsider specialist

gleams in his iris, the heater gaslight consuming like an agnostic remembrance.

The grasses emptied their distresses on my feet as though I were God,

I feel sorry for their requirement for excessive admiration. It uncovers itself just to the void of me,

Prickling my lower legs and mumbling of their modesty.

I can't persuade them in any case.

I hear them mew and contend as though for an unpleasant nipple's reasonable nourishment.

Absurd rule of the natural, crude and wild.

I'm mum and clean as a pious devotee in correlation.

However equipped for obliteration are my cravings which rebuff

the scene with recrimination, evacuating the supports.

They swallow fire, communicate in four dialects, and love nobody.

I shiver with satisfaction as they propel themselves back to their starting point,

to the scratched out lower part of an uterine nothing;

this hard depression, skull-strong, drove once again into dubiousness

until it surrenders as though wrecked by barbiturates.

Fumy, spiritous fogs possess this spot

Isolated from my home by a column of tombstones.

Its green fumes trigger an olfactory a sensation that this has happened before like a repetitive bad dream.

I envy the covered faces at last liberated from stress and affliction,

from the strain to remain consistently ground breaking.

I picture their delivery, the prostrate bodies drifting up as though suspended.

What harmony, what tranquility was scooped onto their pine box beds

where dimness then dropped, at the same time, last as an execution.

I basically can't understand where there is to get to.

The moon is no entryway. It is a face by its own doing,

White as a knuckle and horribly furious. I relate to its queasiness.

It meets me in the mirror excluded, this face underneath my face,

anxious and reluctant. It forms inside me like a kicking baby

what's more, won't be overlooked. It torment and compromises like a previous injury.

It hauls the ocean after it like a dull wrongdoing; quiet as a mug shot,

it hushes up, similar to somebody choked out who out of nowhere quits battling.

I perceive in its warm demise the statement of the destitute

With the O-expand of complete depression. I live here.

Against me a power, not more grounded or more wise,

in any case, more versatile to unfortunate weather conditions like dandelions.

I can feel it trim me down to horse feed pellets.

I'm being winnowed out of the world's course,

with a matching steady as this colder time of year's elapsing.

Two times on Sunday the ringers surprise the sky —

Eight incredible tongues insisting the Restoration.

I'm compelled to pay attention to the ceremonial addressing,

no-show understudy of a drill I despise.

Toward the end, they temperately bong out their names;

Legends and beliefs I would never force myself to trust in,

my requests, the self-hatred of pathetic love.

The yew tree face up like Another Britain steeple.

It has a Gothic shape. It used to help me to remember home.

The eyes lift after it and track down the moon.

Once delicate as rice paper, it hangs static and intense

like a noose implying more difficulty ahead —

grilling electric lamp that harms my eyes.

Presently no home exists — simply an unfilled bed,

a heap of disfigured sheets on a dim wood floor,

like snow on the frozen mud tracks of foot and wheel.

The moon is my mom. She isn't sweet similar to Mary.

She licks her white plumes and gazes back with one eye

horrible as a swan going to nibble.

Her blue pieces of clothing unloose little bats and owls.

I watch, my leg trapped in the reality of my life

Presently where past human inclination I've gone.

How I might want to have faith in delicacy —

in those emblematic associations that evoke sweet ideas:

mother and youngster, father and little girl, a couple.

The essence of the representation, gentled by candles,

its cheekbones flushed with an afterworld partiality

Twisting, on me specifically, its gentle eyes;

hair waving, mouth separated in mid-discourse like suffocated Ophelia.

I have fallen far. I lie at the base, crushed

like a supper plate against kitchen tile, china chips and rough pieces.

I lie at the base, broke and perilous, turning upward

with a child's shocked immersion. I'm drawing nearer to Pluto and Mars.

Mists are blossoming blue and mysterious over the essence of the stars, —

It won't be speedy. Demise savors me, slow as syrup.

Inside the congregation, the holy people will be all blue.

They've rose into paradise's oxygen-denied funeral home.

Drifting on their fragile feet over the chilly seats,

Their hands and faces solid with blessedness,

life sized models lastingly sanctioning the nativity in a wax historical center.

The moon doesn't see anything of this. She is uncovered and wild

as one passing on from disease. She asks for alleviation, however her pad stifled

yells scatter with different sounds and shadows of the evening.

We are let be, her body face, skinny and dismal, insightful of mine.

Furthermore, the message of the yew tree is darkness — obscurity and quiet.

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    BPWritten by bishnu prasad

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