Response to Sunday Whirl Wordle #518
I try
sitting on the lush green carpet,
marking where the land ends,
it’s where the swollen waves fall
and dissolve,
plucking my tears and making some flowers.
I try
making a garland,
by weaving together the late blooming flowers
made up of my salty tears,
touching, caressing each and every petal
and the knots between them.
Then I try
kneeling down on the sunken garden floor, hurling and catapulting the garland,
aiming for the burning candle,
inside the lighthouse,
and watching it disappear into thin air.
So, I try
riding the wheel of a beat up motorbike,
along a straight jagged line,
almost like an orthodox ritual,
living the exact same lie,
perpetuated by my ancestors.
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