Twice over, I’ve grieved
for the great sleeve of a butter tomorrow.
Twice over, the sorrow was underwhelming.
This time it’s time to man the helm,
set a crash course toward
the bruised and bloodied sun
dropping its blanket over the undesiring land.
Control must be exorcised.
Distances surmised.
My heart is comprised of illicit endeavors,
sexual favors, anise-flavored
with just a touch of whisky.
The frisk is risky. Meanwhile,
Spring keeps on coming up empty.
-r. miller
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