Wordle #191

I draw each thread closed,

wounds bending into caricature.

I gather the corners,

these four white walls a shroud.

I dabble in death,

in dreams that come and go

without thirst or warning.

–

The pen in my hand

is red tipped,

a minatory bride

scattering dreams

in her crepuscular flight.

Complex and intransit,

I have more layers than substance.

–

I find myself clinging

to each impasse

afraid of the sobriety

that momentum affords.

Do you think me unthinkable?

Erudite or woefully inconsistent?

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Sunday Writing Prompt “It’s All In The Title”

I hold my breath, sobs tethered
behind a faltering smile.
Your words fasten like a knife
in the grove of my intestines.
I never leave enough
room for goodbyes.
–
From the river’s edge
the willow’s shriek,
long limbs contorted
with each torn exhale.
Possessed with grief
I choose my reply carefully
but the delivery still scars.