Opal

Sheep file the corridor
mirror,  follow
fingertips stripped
imitating their muse.
I yearn for passion
raw
to be thrust upon them
strengthen their verve.
Dispel this omen
that they may see
the oceans
the heavens
the fire -
the limitless beauty
in a single
solitary opal.






Written for wordle 22
at The Sunday Whirl

Cleansed

Speaking of desperation
you spin tales,
inciting revolution
while you slouch
on your granite podium.
A stranger now,
no light beckons me to you.
I'm cleansed.
And your face is cracked,
as it spills cheap rhetoric
now wasted on me.
The screw no longer turns,
and my memories are burnt
leaving ash grey dust
that floats in the breeze.

Written for wordle 18
at The Sunday Whirl