Ain’t we quaint?
In this technicolor world
Just following the moon
Letting it guide our ways
So inept
We’re like a puppet
Without its puppeteer
The perfect torsion
To mold our Stygian lot
Stone cold drunk
On Razorwine
We don’t realise
The trouble we’re in
That it will grate away
Our freedom, just
To leave the sour truth
Nothing can end in silence
Only a rare soul
Can geminate
And rise again
To lead us a different way
~
I wrote this one for this weeks Wordle at Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie 🙂 We are given twelve words and are asked to use 10 of them in a poem or story. I’ve bolded the ones I used, and ended up using them all this week.
A. E. Bratchford 
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