Flogging a Dead Horse

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The abstract sky we’ve torn away
like so many festering scabs
reveals another shade of gray
swarmed with wrinkles and dusty crabs.

“It’s all fucked up,” I say to you
as I study this wretched sight.
From within me, a burning blue
drowns quietly in its own light,

and I feel too deep its dying.
“Well, what more can we do?” you ask
“The horizon’s filled with drying
weeds, blemishes, and brittle masks.”

Sighing, I face the lucid grass
where lie the remnants of our years.
It seems that we have grown too crass
to just leave them collecting here.

-r. miller

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