Wordle #211


I scry in blood,

In the rattle

Of a receding breath.

Untraceable sins

Spill like thieves

From my hollows.

My face is a web,

A halo of plaster

And mute resolutions.

I reach my hands

Into your straying gait

But nothing sobers

As hindsight and I am

Already too late.

The creek drums,

A chilling cry.

I pull threads of silver

From knowing ghosts,

Chains as feeble

As human logic.