Spring is here
disguised as a broken old man
wearing a cloak of rain.
Numberless voices strain
to make themselves heard
over the growling of traffic.
Tonight, my mind
is a swirl of apathetic fumes,
and the poems I swore I’d write
are serving time
in my heart’s
aging penitentiary.
-r. miller
*Insert Propaganda Here* 
Perhaps they’re only dormant, waiting for some sunshine to sprout and bloom. It’s been a nasty week of rain where I am. Take care.