The Poets are Preening

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The poets are preening,
having weaned themselves off
the milk of modest hysteria
they’d so long nursed on
and grew to dislike intensely.

Epiphanies and elegies take to the skies
only to burn up midflight.
Par for the course.

The poets huddle close
beneath the hoarse whispers
issued from the cold.

To think these once emboldened prophets
who spat feral stanzas at the moon
now merely croon listless lullabies
to pacify the pinioned beast
whose gnarled fangs are Truth.

-r. miller

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