UNFORTUNATE, THEY CALL HIM..

Inside,
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
Unfortunate,

He’ll recuperate,
Just wait.

For Wordle#17

- vishstudio
– vishstudio
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