I burn and bless.
I conceal my loses
behind a facade of red.

In anger we convalesce,
the cost of maintaining
the ego is our freedom.

In the end the only vote
that counts is the one cast.
To choose or not to choose
makes one no less culpable.

I am stumped by
the black and blue striations
that swarm around
each and every heart.

Distortions and delusions of fame.
If not for greed is there really
anything left inside of us?

Stupid and sick,
we haven’t the slightest inclination
of what it means to stick
with the breath.

We are all locked within
our self-imposed dimensions.
We grab whatever we can
but return empty nonetheless.


6 thoughts on “Wordle #273

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