Wordle # 161


I twist the plastic baptizing

Your impending disaster.

Bread or wine people

Rarely change but given

Enough altitude any man,

Whatever his station, can fly.

I lick your alabaster wrists

The graphic pulse sublimating

To a chaos that I will never

Comprehend through force.

I could devour you but the hunger

Would overpower my senses.

You are not mine

But only mine will suffice.