Wordle #230


The scheming crease of your withered lure,

a smile sweet and vicious falters to the left.

My secret fear, the facts laid bare as poultry.

There is no stone past or present that I

have not wept over, no flood in which I have not

consequently drowned. How the extremes beckon me!

I do not endure, the stream erodes my sallow shores.

Lines spread across my brow, the incoming swell,

a madness that etches all that is necessary in me.

Misery is not meaningless, it is a way of translating

that which is expressively incommunicable.

I am feeling very gloomy, we are now experiencing the darkest days. My writing has been very unfocused lately I realize, I am justĀ feeling off. I can’t really explain it, likeĀ a sense of withering humiliation.