I keep those Wordles to myself,

another word game on the prowl,

just like the poems no one reads,

more aide memoir of how things seemed.

My prompt when I don’t understand,

all rhyme and reason gone to pot -

when life’s a drag without the drug -

so unclear what I meant by that,

and unsure which way leant with that,

but careless now - there’s more import.

 

My old verse keeps its meaning close,

read thrice fore realise its scheme,

so unobtrusive, subtle, I,

it ’scapes me, like intended lie.

Awaiting input, fill the gaps,

when I’m freefall before insert

the definite, articulate;

it’s poets’ licensed friction day,

free verse without blank asterisk.

 

Thus here, without impinging voice,

fair certain that tomorrow’s leaks

will not unleash my secrets’ store,

both why and wherefore quite my own.

I’ll not divulge. unknown to me,

now safely in dementia wrapped -

it’s lost from brain, all scandalous,

in privy corner of my own.

If something slips as synapse flips

they’ll read my mutter as a dream.