Wordle #174


I follow the line of deformations,

The candle’s primitive rebirth,

The undulating asylum of gray.

Fugitive silhouettes spill

Over my transgressions.

I fold myself, tears searing

As they inch their way

Down my unsigned letters.

I pluck an orange from behind

An African mask’s demonstrative frown.

The pockmarked peelĀ a rite of passage.

I question my own consistency,

The grandness of my envelopments

Are they enough to keep

The demimonde sidetracked?

My sexuality, so inconsistent

With my righteousness

My dry, albino skin, like

The sleeve of a newly

Released serpent

Too much purity

Will rot the heart

And who could endure

A life in absentia?

A life without sensuality?

A life without communion?