Ghosts Roasted

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

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s