Wordle #257

257

The warmth leaves my fingers,
as if it were laughter.
What is this nothing
into which I empty
my wit daily?

The bird in my breast
grows fat on a quilt of stars.
Who dares make a wish
when the twinkle has fallen
from my eye?

Let me weep in abject silence,
salt is the soleĀ spice in my repertoire.
If only I could lift the music
from these moonstruck pages
that alone would suffice.

How can I claim reason
in this habitual state of shock?
A sigh is the heaviest
of all sentiments,
when I reach the bottom
I promise only to dig.

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A Birthday Present

Alright I have a poetry reading for your guys today! I am reading A Birthday Present by Sylvia Plath. If you enjoy it I will read the whole book to you, poem by poem. This poem is from Ariel a book I found very inspirational. I am not much an actress so my readingsĀ are flat and my god that Southern accent *twitches*