Wordle #118

118

The night repairs my longing

Restoring tears and keys

Driven from orbit

In the becomings of day.

My thoughts stumble

Through mesh and chiffon

A single no could shred

The nerves conducting my efforts.

If only I could think myself beyond

These sloppy, insidious walls

Beyond the slate of machined ideals

And personal inoculations

Beyond time and caricature.

*

The whole family is at home together sick (the poem has nothing to do with this comment)

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2 responses to “Wordle #118

  1. we can very easily become a pale caricature of ourselves when lost to modernity s brand of life or when we succumb to our own inoculation. ..we can only numb for so long before losi ng all feeling

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