For The Sunday Whirl poetry prompt: Wordle #89
hope you won’t hold it against me,
but these words you delivered got nasty.
Took them to my room, that place where
I brood, but somehow they ended up
strewn, like five-pointed stars, on all
four walls and the ceiling.
Then tried pleading, kneading them
into soft malleable dough, hoping they’d rise
for Sunday’s show, but they only
became hard lumps of coal, just lay there
and moaned about someone’s peculiar
So, put them in a pot, set the flame
beneath them to hot, but those hard little
kernels refused to unfurl, and gave me
not even one pop, nor a sizzle.
It pains me to reveal, what came next:
tangent of thought said those words
had been hexed. Took them all out back,
tossed them into a big burlap sack,
them threw them into icy creek, out yonder.
As I watched them sink, I poured a drink,
and made you and myself a promise,
“Next week, I can only hope to do better.”
Notes: Fun way to deal with the wordle angst that creeps over me on occasion.