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 sole 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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11 responses to “Wordle #257

  1. The first three stanzas start with very dramatic and creative statements that bend into some philosophizing. the laughing fingers, the bird in your breast, the salt spice of tears. can we dig further down,
    can we go further than our rock bottom?

    • Thank you so much Brian =) Sometimes it seems we couldn’t go further and then another layer reveals itself and sometimes that is a good thing and sometimes it is a very frightening thing

  2. I love this:
    “What is this nothing into which I empty my wit daily? –The bird in my breast grows fat on a quilt of stars.”

    Despite the line break, white space, and division, I read this as if it says you are filling the bird with your wit … which is the equivalent of a “quilt of stars.”

    The bird is either (or both) you or (and) someone you love.

    In my experience, dying love can absolutely be saved by applying liberal doses of cleverness and laughter.

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