Wordle #51

Week 51

A discarded bottle pleads

For anguished fingers

To embrace its slender neck

And she does again and again

Unable to spare herself the consequence

Of what has become a daily ablution.

Her pale voice, hoarse and scripturient

Rises up with an onslaught of tears

None of which can be precisely named.

Misery does not always justify its cause

And is not more often a case of familiarity?


A callused tongue serrates her deviations

She would speak of the panic

The weltering heart that nips

At her left wrist every time

She buttons the cuff of her sleeve

But he will not hear of such matters

The banalities of an urban mythos

Because she does not speak plainly

When drunk and all he ever hears

Of her thoughts is the regurgitation.


Iconography is not synonymous with love

It is the fate of everyone to die alone

There is nothing grisly or convoluted

In the ways of nature even if the ways of man

Would declare it so and pervert its truths.

He loves her in this precise moment

For it is only this that can be guaranteed

But still she cradles the withered umbilicus.

How is it that no one ever loved me before?

How could anyone love this lesser version?

He counts her virtues

More than can be accommodated

By two hands but the how and the why

Evade even his most ardent replies.