Wordle #117


My conscience mills away the seconds

The frail, incomprehensible notes

Of loneliness occupying my mistakes.

I am sick, undetectable, on the precipice

Of translating your meaning in chasm.

Friends do not leave fetters

Where hearts are fated to rest.

They do not peel back tears

Only to inscribe fresh ones

At the first show of togetherness.

They do not offer you piecemeal

In order to garnish something false

And festering within themselves.

No, no it is not I that you betray

But yourself and all that was ever

Worth the validation sought.

There are no labs within which we may

Reconstruct our former selves,

There is perhaps forgiveness

But even that cannot justify reunion.