Fraught With Sore


Our innuendo debate molds great
leaps of faith, stirring inside the stanza.
Where shelter grows and fire pertains
to a specific fault. Make no mistake, or do.
Make do where the air swarms our skin,
and you too will know the motions, small
motions yet clear. A cycle that breeds notions
of existence never grappled.
It moves our hands to dust
and when you move, I am moved to create,
as I must, these images of lust
in torrid population,

and so overexpose my rudimentary core,
feeble as a boy and fraught with sore.

-r. miller


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