A Quick Sonnet

The feeling is fractioned.
No one ever gains traction
in this weather. Strange
rumblings from the nether
regions and an ever deepening sky.
They called us the creeps of conscience,
but never asked for our names,
never endeavored to understand our aims.
The air is stacked with moot points
and refuted claims.
There’s the fountainhead, teeming
with dead ecstasies, its surface murky.
So this is what we’ve been
working toward?

-r. miller

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s