Wordle #171

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.

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9 responses to “Wordle #171

  1. Art is as shallow as its creator allows you know. I would rather peel back the layers and get to that sticky center myself. Lol.

  2. Like cloves of unpressed garlic. / I strip their papery carapaces, / The detritus of unskilled wings

    one of my favorite sets of lines here – s short but evocative poem – terribly moving – so yes, well done Yves.

  3. Pingback: HALLOWED HUNT–(for MindLoveMisery–Wordle-171) | Dim Scribbles Diary·

  4. I ❤ the third one the best. “Ink is my choice of nectar” … Oh, how many times, I myself, have feverishly written a cleansing nectar (then sometimes had to burn it, so never to be looked upon by another’s eyes) that, regardless, does nourish the soul!

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