Wordle #255


A corridor of silk panels,
of crosses riding the divots and contours
of a self-righteous end.
She tears the ground from beneath my feet
as if it were a veil and it is only a veil.

Her eyes burn through rendition,
lady-like and avaricious
she licks the stars,
indifferent to sublimation.
Every word is an order,
a mandate more abstruse in execution.

She is right enough
to justify any breach of character.
The plants in the windows
have perished in drought.
I snap their withered
stalks between my fingers,
there’s not even enough
water left to surmise.

(I am still in a funk!)


6 responses to “Wordle #255

  1. Pingback: Lady and the Ground-Licker | LINES of SHADEAU·

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