Wordle #191

Week 184

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?