Wordle #171


Shadows stain my hallow core,

Bats dabbling in the hunt

Unfolding one moldy thrill at a time.

The ooze of my childhood

Primordial and faintly heretical.

Art can never be shallow.

My heart whacks with revelation.

I catch the shards

Of her indiscriminate blasts

Like cloves of unpressed garlic.

I strip their papery carapaces,

The detritus of unskilled wings

From the sticky center.

Ink is my choice of nectar

The toxicity of a sweetness

That cannot be directly imbibed.

I spit the pages from my belly

An aggregate of offal and pollen

The best and the worst in me.