No Reprieve

Standard

Motion and clarity
convene in hilarity,
obscene fingers
faintly trembling,
the firmament’s
titanic hand.

The land swells
and the warmth drops
and the air cops
a knockout stance
to supplant
our tired attitude.

In higher altitudes,
it’s harder to breathe,
but if you can,
it’s a worthy euphoria.
Phantasmagoria
of every nationality

withers in the web
of moments woven
in insecurity.
Is this you I see
growing blurry
in the mist?

Your wistful whispers
travel through the space
between us,
graceful and grazing
the skin of my thoughts
with that special

tenderness
only you can manage.
Quickly! a bandage
or a blunt or a whiskey sour,
anything to cover
the cut left in my chest

that blessed me
with bleeding.
I’ll be seething soon,
teething on whiplash,
and crashing against
the windshield

simultaneously.
Faults expressed
extemporaneously
intravenously implode.
Overbearing overload.
I’ve encoded

something devious
in the margins of this note.
My throat is bloated
with a melody
my voice cannot conceive.
The evening’s

mourning bell
will grant me no reprieve.

-r. miller

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