Wordle #30

Week 30

You goad my waxen pathology

As Zeus sculpting lightening bolts.

You a maverick, and I, the source

Of your vigil, your love of dissension

Of wild things and I cannot hew

Your heart anymore than I can erase

Our combined initials from the old oak

Where you once mended us.


If your tongue were a vise

I might not stray so often

Into the eel like passages

Of my own personal narrative.

Depression marches on

No matter how many splints

Or tourniquets you apply

I bleed for it still.


Society exterminates saints.

For all the beauty

There is always a man

Willing to condemn it.

Perhaps we are not

Ready for beauty?

Too quick to medicate,

I chew these inedible tablets

As a cow revisits

The same piece of turf.

Between us who knows more

About their function in life?


Whose instincts serve them?

I for one have lost the cadence

The earth does not speak to me

As she once did, only the weather

By which I mean, that I am

Continuously pummeled

By the skirts of happenstance

And inertia and if a dance

I would be the evacuation

Of inward-facing chairs