PSYCHE


Flashes back to different days, happier days,
    maybe that never were.
Broken patterns, syncopation of memories,
    splatter of light on black canvass.
Feelings pulled through jagged peaks,
    down into the dark humus, moist soil.
The secret spawned deep in the dark night,
    swathed with velvet and violet,
A golden blur moving through the pitch,
    streaks and shadows colliding--
Dreams threading through the forested maze,
     filled with


                            warmth and phosphorescence,
                                  wood goblins and frights,
                                          heaps of clothing on the floor,
          splitting pain,
                   splitting laughter.


July 11 (1969 /70)









All written material © Bill Schechter, 2016
Contact Bill Schechter
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