Wordle #168


I set fire to your image,

A simpering candle

Dissolving into sebaceous rain.

I slip into a ragged cape

Woven with the ghosts

Of our conjoined blood.

Arms palpitant in a blind wind,

I head off for your grave,

The rupture in our mission,

The rapacious hills of the dead.

Will I subsist in your absence,

In the cradle of my ineptitude?

Will the smoke darken

On reaching your immobile grin

A reaper to upend you in

The forgetful tides of the river Styx.

Life is not so simple

It happens with or without


In the blink of an eye,

In the midst of bone-stripping fire.

It stops for no man whatever his value.

I pray and preach to an empty choir.

How your death sickens me,

Whittles away every vestige

Of my salvation and humanity.


Well I managed mysteriously to get a poem in!