Wordle #57 “April 20, 2015″

Week 57

A syzygy of grey moons line my pillowcase

Meek, brittle, and in this moment ornamental.

What I fear has not come to pass

Yet each time I picture her, the intern,

Blank as a college-ruled notebook

I smother my holdings, hoping only

That they will die, passively with me.

A troglodyte composed in her shadow,

I do not even exist but for comparison.

That this miraculous creature

Should mount the wick

While I congeal in a shallow dish

Is a recursion of fate, a necessity.

What am I if not sublimation?

Her pelvis bounces incessantly

As if her womb were a bell,

Calling mass and every man

Wanting to worship inside of her.

Posterity will render me harshly

For such a gorgeous woman

Cannot but be the heroine

And she will save you from pain

From the years of sorries and neverminds

Imposed on the faithful.