The Birth of Tragedy

From the new dialogue
arose a tenderness
like a wicked funnel of smoke.
We broke apart
our open-ended questions
to fit inside the scenery
that blossomed around us,
confounding our a priori faculties
and looming like a gallows.
We weren’t exactly sober witnesses.
A strange whiteness
crowned the staggering
distance before us.
The chorus chattered
amongst themselves
in graceless tones,
droning on into the late hours.
What few spectators there were
dropped flowers at the fringe.
Our mutual solitude
singed us in the strangest way,
and nobody could really say
what everyone was thinking.
All anyone knew for sure
was that the shrinking  sense of belonging
could no longer bear our weight.
A fate worth being resigned to,
we decided.

-r. miller

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