Le miroir de mon cœur
refèlte ce que vous etes.
Smashed glass. A piped scream
holds the fragment of light allotted us.
The blotted hills, studious.
The valleys below, obscure.
This is a cure not to be messed with
or dressed in ethics. The anesthetic
of your gaze amazes.
Sewn to the sky’s chapped lips,
a final thought spreads lithe arms,
offering fresh shelter and warmth
from the cold that has lately been
a gray shroud over our discourse.
When the force of the wind
dwindles to a pea, we shall see
our names against the night
glistening like drops of water.
-r. miller
*Insert Propaganda Here* 