positioned we are
on the reflecting surface
of a silver bullet
the calm monstrosity
barreling forward
toward the unlit damp
theatre we await
the figures the factory
the cracks in the crust
so rusted with radiance
undulating under
the ermine gaze
phrases plucked
from worried wombs
and the tomb in a trance
our selves dancing on its guts
-r. miller
*Insert Propaganda Here* 