Wordle #148


Your virus supports

The frame on which it preys.

I have a heart full of tricks,

Of safes that open at the nudge

Of your hard-pressed ear.

I receive no wages for enduring you

Though every now and then my mind

Goes up in flames braving

Your funereal breath and the refuse

Of its own failings.

When you die I’ll throw a party

Like none hitherto witnessed.

Your portrait a chameleon,

A constellation of pitiless courts

Dead center like a sulking deity.

Later I’ll weep, the pus

Of these troubled wounds

Leaking riotously over your effigy.

The moment your eyes close

Mine will again open

Full as they might be.