Wordle #78

Week 78

Your blood burns

My throat like razorwine.

Drunk to the coffers

I have nothing left

Worthy of enunciation.

A grating silence

Geminates out of control

We have become puppets

To the same inept moon.

Stygian and sour

We rape the sky

Of all its accouterments.

Technicolor stars spilling

Between the torsion

Of gnashing teeth.

We are not rare amongst men.

We are indigenous to pain

An offense to the powers

That rendered us,

An affront to the madness

We claim, we claim, we claim.