Wordle #7 “Jar”


Your beak nuzzles my lungs

Chases my words as if a chill

Rides deep in my towering bones

Seals my lips as a sprain

With a stiffening anguish


My reserve is erratic at best

For I seek still the jar

The jar with its human sap

Its viscous amphibious masks

The price of anthropomorphism

Does not abate with practice

But grows and grows

Until I am wearing my smile

Stitched beneath my nose

Impassive as a scythe


I the chimera, the eidolon

The invoker of indolent fears

Will you betray me little bird?

Or shall I dance upon your grave

My heart being the perfect fit

For your delicate sentiments

An organic cage that feeds

Of itself for fear of company


How lonely I am and how long unseen

Strait as a Cypress for dread of sleep

Arrest not my eyes for my dreams

Are not so easily curbed as my thoughts