The wise man appears
in the vacant night.
Brain steam calms the water
under light versus shadow.
What cocktails tell.
Baby, I can ring your bell.
Its knell will spill across
the forehead of the cul de sac.
A sure thing attacks
the carnival ground,
and the solstice emerges
from a most profound solitude.
I’m beholden to the wound
in your neck.
The spiraling specks of stained glass.
Our double shadow greets
the passage. What message
does it hold? Cold fangs
dipped in sulfur, sepulchral fingers
caressing empty space.
Now, I will face all former
versions of myself
with saintly fortitude
as I drift like a faint echo
through the halls of your dreams.
-r. miller
*Insert Propaganda Here* 