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.