Wordle #144


What strange births are these

That yield my deficiencies

Into corporal form?

Not a mask but a cage

Of anatomy and spirit.

The ether bends

In regurgitation

Too many spoiled dreams,

Capped roots, nesting tongues

Blackened by the ink

Wept to persuade them.

She undresses her variables,

The twine woven between

Her sternum and back,

The snarling malignancies

Of a heart curled in on itself.

Their deaths conjure starlings,

Trinkets of flight and yearning

A song carried with the sigh,

A surreptitious, nullifying neglect.

There are too many mouths to feed

And too many preferences.

Heaven itself could not satisfy

However, sweet the diversion.