Wordle #138

Week 138.png
I hold you locked
between my contemptuous thighs,
inwardly and outwardly
our expressions inscrutable.

Our hybrid limbs furl and thrash.
A welcome assault,
a senseless pssitacism
my green heart froths and boils over.

A prickle, a trickle, a crush of stars
my toes grip, struggling against the dross
of your counterintuitive facades.

We pour incognito,
into the shadow of a yew tree
harbingers of a long deceased God.