Wordle #164


Your lips, though muffled, sizzle.

Every enunciated hello burns

With a singular commitment

A desire for addition,

For language both raw and organic.

I will not be a number, however,

Profitable I have a right to more

Than my ill-placed existence.

The sun stomps malignantly

Through a fair-weather sky.

I empty my hollow leg

Into your ripped stockings.

The background seethes

Deities of necessity and invention

With scratch and sniff powers

And interminable reach.

It takes a lifetime

To forge one’s desires

And several more

To elicit them.


Not such a good day for writing I have a serious case of sleepiness despite having already slept long and deep!