Demagogue

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He hopped a quandary 
awash in stigma, 
lifting individual fingers 
toward sheets of angels. 
The zephyr juxtaposed 
his offerings, 
and since then, 
his sleep is an empty stadium. 
Still, he swallows 
each dusty gush with finesse, 
tricky bastard, 
but not before 
mauling them in enamel. 
The problem assembled 
before him seeks 
to swerve him toward collision, 
but it lacks a certain 
precision that would 
facilitate the endeavor. 
So he digs his spine 
for anything that could be 
considered evidence, 
crushing daylight to a void. 
He really possesses 
no shame in these matters, 
but shame isn’t really 
something that he values, 
and neither is value 
for that matter. 
For what matters to him 
is expansion, 
unadulterated expansion, 
and his radius has swelled 
beyond all expectation, 
blanketing all 
in its putrefying swell. 

-r. miller

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