Wordle #128


My edges spill unbidden down

A hillside swarming with nettles.

They gather in forgotten places,

In snatches of penumbra.

I’ve seen it all with nothing between.

Ghosts worship in a stringent chorus.

Patches fail to conceal their truancy,

They are exhaust and ectoplasm.

The air in my lungs sharpens

To a shriek, I will never forget,

The exact spot where I died

Broken by my own menace.


On another note I am really struggling to keep up and catch up right now


11 responses to “Wordle #128

  1. To live after death, to know where you died. I think I would feel caught in oblivion, stuck to wander all the old places but never interact.

  2. I’ve read this several times now, and this is the line that grabs me every time: “They are exhaust and ectoplasm.” Way cool.

  3. Pingback: THE BALLROOM (Part 4, No-End House) | WEALTH of RUINS·

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s