psychosis

I find the street loud with fight,

Struck bruised blue by the skin of one bare moon.

My hands have felt the night, touched the night,

Held the night.

But shadow shapes have a way of deception.

It is these caliginous beasts that hover and speak

Of smiling cats or possum kinds with sharper teeth.

Old soul now at one with the leaves,

Alight with the ants, the shaking wet sky screams.

Here stained love runs down my hands--unrequited

And the earth and the beating stars erupt

Alive.

But me, quite alone,

Open your mouth--

I am sound.

Aloud a soul fractures.

Not yours.

Only mine

Where tiny hands retrieve hope’s scraps from the ground.

Love, do not be afrait of your crime.

I am schizophrenically medicated.

Hospitals I have noted,

With prayers unrealised as the atheism answered.

I am psycho.

Best to leave, the rest have forsaking,

Slinking away from my shame,

Their eyes still quaking.

This is how it ends-

No person is perfect.

Therefore, dear reader, tell me, do I deserve it?