Wordle #67

Week 67

Your silent cantillations foam

At the gorge between your lips.

Body a rocking horse

Broken across the saddle.

Fistulas rendezvous

In your purloined heart.

Grief is hideous

Underneath your skin.

I enter the bazaar,

Inching my way

Across the diameter

Grappling my way

Through your foreboding.

Wracked and loaded with pain,

The shadow beneath you

Comes off in flakes

As if it too were incinerated.

No one hurts as fiercely as you do.

I shift the junk

In my pocket book

Passing out tissues to all

Who will take them.

Your dwindling eyes spilling

Fruitlessly over the asphalt

There is nothing here, no one

To haul away your sadness

And I am a pitiful excuse.



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