A conundrum drums its way
through the rum-tinted air,
flaring up intermittently
in riotous tantrums.
So I turn to my phantom limbs.
The salted rim of my glass.
It seems that somehow
I’ve fallen ass-backwards
into a mountain of tears,
bruised by the sheer intensity
of its grief. Had only I been born
an autumn leaf, I’ve not have to
cope with such injury.
Hopeless happenstance.
The dance of desert winds
in the sullen eye of time.
-r. miller
*Insert Propaganda Here* 