Week 80

In a copse her body rises

Four-cornered and atavistic.

An infection menaced

With sprigs of pastel moonlight

And lust-less oversights.

Behind a nebulous door,

A figure pared to shadow

Extends a bony exhale.

What a fine costume

Death conceives when

On loneliness he preys.

The God’s write themselves

With cranberry and ichor

Into the portraits of mortals

But who is inclined to believe

In what they cannot see

When what stands before them

Reaps little more than a twitch.


8 thoughts on “Wordle #80

  1. I like the idea of a divinity in us in the sense of “we are more than ourselves” in the best possible way. That even if we die, there is more of us than just our time here.

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