And what do these
prognostications reveal?
Inflammation in the index finger,
lingering, singing the touch.
But is a touch complete?
The heat on my back
is not the heat in your eyes.
Lies for the left-of-center.
From the moment I enter
the chamber of your focused heart
to the moment I dismember
the entire operation,
a rage underwhelms me,
convinces me that commerce is king
and breathes in my ear.
The fear of friction pauses mid-flight.
And a cold night descends
on our even colder color code.
-r. miller
*Insert Propaganda Here* 