The Proof

Standard

Summer sucks the serenity
out of my sculpture garden.
I throw a tantrum in the fray
and later, beg its pardon.

Nothing blooms like it did in pilgrim times,
especially these stupid rhymes
I’ve been composing
in the compost of my dreams.
The seams are showing signs of wear.

Everything eventually tears, I guess,
though I have to question the necessity.
Everything eventually gets the best of me,
and this I don’t question. In fact,
I’ve always taken this
to be a self-evident truth.

The proof is in the pincers.

-r. miller

Advertisements

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 )

Google+ photo

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

Connecting to %s