The line runs down the page,
then blasts through the empty spaces
between the words you use
to symbolize what you’re becoming.
In the morning, the homing beacon
summons you to the crest
of the jeweled mountain.
Nothing is critical.
Fabricated flight of doves,
metaphoric, meteoric, sounding
listlessness and poverty – its form
reared up and knocked you
to the ground.
A fatal distraction picked you up
and whirled you until you puked
up yesterday’s creative mistakes.
Just like that, the clouds floundered,
eruptions and all.

-r. miller


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