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

Acknowledgment,

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!