Wordle #247


What is lost must never be forgotten
the innocent, the exemplar, the modus operandi
I was unique once, an anvil of possibilities.

My feathers rattle, a familiar itch,
the need for ambiguity.
I stretch, I ache, I turn another leaf.

You were the first, the subsequent, the last
a shell, a hole, a shovel earth-bound.
Sometimes I lose sight of the rest.

How fantastically old I’ve grown
in the intermissions, there’s hardly a breath left
to press into the back of your throat
(hardly a concept worth filling my hands).

I am still scared of the darkness,
of the demons biting my tongue
of the careless and inconsequential moments
that weather my bones.


6 responses to “Wordle #247

  1. Wow, I love all your work, but there is something about this..something indefinable perhaps in the final analysis, but still..but still..it reaches something deep in my bones. Bravo! 🙂

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