Wordle #88

Week 88

I dredge your empyreal veins,
a bloodcrow tracking the progression
of a war in which he takes no part.
I draw your whalebone corset tighter,
like nails on slate the air reaches up
from your pinched apertures shrieking.

I dread the day when the fanatics
throw their gasping red paints
across our apathetic shoulders
in inexplicable acts of protest.
I dread the day when our love
hardens into a monument.