What spectral shape has come to spread its shade
upon the sheets? Some buttered ghost which knows
its feelings from its form, a ghost who grows
in increments, who makes the morning fade.

A jaded song has wrecked the great charade
with arms of bitter frost. My evening slows
itself to drool but still outpaces prose,
and paling clouds have stormed the barricade.

For all of this, there’s still the peace which fights
to feast on graves. Its tender mouth will turn
my sleepless thoughts to wine. My pining lights,

frail sentinels, how soulfully you shine!
This line of text I’ve written, let it burn,
and come the sunrise, nothingness be mine.

-r. miller

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