The mail prints thickly twice
in a courting of sorts.
Yet the mounted hurst upsets itself
over a light tryst.
In a prism alike to the tiled field,
or the shine in the mouth of a butch.
It pains me by weary leave-
a qualm, a laugh, awful.
Forgetting the fears tight input
of your fairy arson,
drooping in the gloom,
and the death of some waspy aural aloud.
Even in party lands,
we don’t forget
to bring the ghost a glass.
p.s. This is your sign to write that wordle down the next time it starts sounding like a haiku 2 u. Hey, send it to me if you come up with something!
on loop
(quite literally have been looping for 24 hours+)
~~~
Palm Trees by Often