Wordle #8 “Scrap”



I do not possess

A wren’s vibrato

The supernal utterance

Palliative and perplexing

As a diurnal breach


My tongue is slippery

It stokes the fire simpering

Inside your cerebellum

Sweeps the floor

From underneath

Your sensible shoes

Buckles both knees

To assuage the ruse


There is ecstasy in regret

The way it drenches pride

The way it clings, graphic

As static and longitudinal

As a windswept rain

I covet these burns

That I may not do so again


I’ve a head full of moss

Soft as a freshly risen grave

I believe in karma

In the agitation of fate

Still I cannot see

Any other lantern

Save the moon


My eyes are not a lake

Into which one would

Consciously drown

For who could bare

Long enough to look?

Who could thread

My brokenness?

My loneliness?

My rage?

There is no aperture

Of comparable size

I myself am a void

Who could riddle me

Into cohesion?