At these speeds, I need
a bit of reticence.
This swim through impermanence
has fixed me into the eye socket
of a colossus looming
at the gates of the city of my Self.
If I must die, then let it be
for wealth and fame,
whatever will run my name
like a blade through distant epochs
that the people may feast
on the blood.
The East is strangling its skies this eve.
Wandering, I weave a grotesque web
of dross and social etiquette.
I don’t feel the way that I felt
in the clattering bell of 22,
blue in the face,
pacing the halls of my potential lives
armed with a fifth of bourbon
and a thread of anxiety
between my teeth.
For now, I am eased into cooler waters.
My skin ripples with lack of touch.
I rush forward toward the center
of the ocean’s interminable song.

-r. miller

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