Wordle# 177


I reign in my edges,

Those wild horses,

Those meandering battalions

Dismal in their projections

Intent upon war.

I plant roses by the seashore,

The salt of my withdrawal

Fashioning bullets of thorns.

The preliminary thrust

Rips locks into forbidden flesh.

Oh how I want to trespass you

To rearrange the signals

That perpetuate your repulsion.

Held under the ball of your foot

My prehensile limbs stray

From the carapace, a stain,

Spotted only as a byproduct of death

And if I gather up all my reliquaries

I would still be empty save

For my bitter black blood.