Dear psychosis, Lowly your voice howlsWithin the wintry confines of my mind.Now is the winterOf my discontent.I feel your veilover my eyes thickening.What is reality? I reach for it,But with broken hands,I can no longer grasp.And now as the veil...

How thenam I to mention theprocess of molting withoutelaborating my own desecrationwithout describing the evaporationof my divine inner plumageinside this stillwaterstorm of sunshinethe truth of light banishesmy bright gleaming feathersbeneath the blaze of her warm summer raysmy decimated colors...