The master plan unfolded like a bedroll
over the holy floor of our lives,
a new goal worth striving toward.
With glee, we marked the lord
of the manor with sharpie inscriptions
of genitals and unsavory phrases,
glazed the lady’s hair while she slept
her drunken sleep.
Before we knew it, we were knee deep
in rusty waters, green webs of insight.
We took to the night breeze
like kites ripped from their spools.
Ferocious and foolish we were,
but also gifted and free.
Storm clouds answering
the treacherous sea.
-r. miller
*Insert Propaganda Here* 