Flowers washed in fevered light.
Spit up fictions and the key.
Wonderment is misery.
The factions…
Wind dribbling on the hills.
Summer’s rancid solitude,
and the dust collecting.
We raise tired arms,
consider ourselves free.
But the hills are glaring..
Shredded sun dangling.
What say you I?
And the crinkled clouds.
The words let loose from their song.

-r. miller

2 thoughts on “Summer

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