Wordle #239


I am a maelstrom of transparencies
and coercions, whether in sincerity or jest
I gravitate toward the impossible
ever impulsive, often insane.

Even love succumbs to rage
in the absence of truth.
My hands wreathe and yearn
excavating letters from the stillness.
There is freedom in attack,
in the mating of instinct and aim.
I know only what I must do
not who I am and certainly
not what I will become.
The sun meanders through clouds
crisp as sheaves of paper, two by two
phrases collapse in mute misunderstanding.
How is it possible that these blood-soaked volumes
which prey so vehemently upon my heart
mean so little to yours?


4 responses to “Wordle #239

  1. This strikes such a chord in my heart, I feel like crying. It’s amazing how poetry can make a person feel such emotional solidarity with someone else whom they’ve never even met.

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