Ghosts Roasted

Standard

From my heavy eyes pours
a molten sweetness.
My wrists are likewise weighted…
Something promised or forsaken…
The cavern ripe with echoes
from others long since dead.
Shadows, tender, spreading
their ambiguities in diffident array,
over leaning cutaways.
For what these efforts…
The unsyntactical  grumbling.
The ghosts roasted on the spokes
of bragging wheels.
Those conforming to strictures,
dense from eating night and gravel …
Bludgeoned by blood and guts.

-r. miller

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