In his linen woven lesions,
Infinite grains of shattered dreams,
Coated in maladies,
He carries;
His grudges,
He wears
On his neck-bone,
Sheltered in hollow silver locket,
With ease,

He won’t open it.

With his wilted vigor,
On his tilted knees,
Mere a puff of his lungs air
Whole planet could freeze,
Or if he sneezed;

But he ain’t that weak,
He won’t contaminate.

He’s an epitome of will,
Fighting against his fate,
All they get to call him is

He’ll recuperate,
Just wait.

For Wordle#17

- vishstudio
– vishstudio

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