Bloody Mary Wordle#182 and Writing Prompt#108


Brenda Warren

Lotion does not ease

The passage of a heart

Once the pulp has set,

Anymore than liquor

Exonerates the suffering soul.

We all have ghosts

In our mirrors and chickens

Dozing in the hinges

Of our open diaries.

My brain sloths in the presence

Of your pitiful machine.

I lust the reel behind

Your gimmick-ridden eyes,

It must be torture to live

Sewn into the uniform

Of your hypnotizing flesh

Never free the train that rapes you.

Nothing spoils like ink on revision

The sultry muse who teases

Without origination, without obligation.

The plump, unfertilized womb

That bleeds her loneliness monthly.

I await my divisions, my miracles

My tears burst on the pads of your thumbs

A diaphanous spore cannibalizing

What it cannot readily possess.