Wordle #120 “September 12th, 2016”


A cinematic drift,
an appellation voiced without consent,
a feint of predilection.
From umbilicus to navel
we exchange ourselves.

Sehnsucht is the only future left.
I’d rather be a verb than a noun,
a codex of formidable integers
that glisten at mirage-like intervals.

I cannot express this pain,
the air settles in my lungs
like minerals, each word
a sob more threadbare
than its predecessor.

I barricade myself,
an unlit corridor
chased with doors
that neither open nor close.