Wordle 199


It was not an angel that fell

Skittering across the surface

As a pebble from a child’s hand,

It was not science

Which suspended the track,

Heels wrestling, a saintly act

It was not gravity that held

The cracks in your memory.

The miserable cue

Ricocheting in a plaintive field,

I watch you flitting about

From one designation to another

Without the confidence

Of any endeavor

And a terrible fear of consolation.

Your open palms urge

I press them with dried flowers,

A whole monastery

Of beautiful impoverished frames.

Your love of death

Suits the state of your heart

I pour you out again and again

And just when I think

I’ve gotten to the bottom

The tears come heavier

And more potent

Than ever before.