Heavy gazes tend to crush
all they fall upon into a powder.
From memory’s clothesline
hang the lacey wraiths of doubt.
Is it really time
to go out in the world?
Have the stars unfurled
their withered longings?
And what about these people
thronging at the center of town?
The moon lays down
a fine film upon the avenue
and my nervousness
leaps into fifth gear.
Sheer panic, but
what else can I depend on?
-r. miller
*Insert Propaganda Here* 