As this was written down,
a soft rain came singing through the air.
The words that had been written
perished at the sound, and from the ground
sprung multi-colored grasses.
We all made passes at one another,
but nobody got any. It was a bust,
and we rusted there amid the wetness.
I poured forty ounces through my hair
in memory of something without a name,
a game we used to play when things
got sour like they often did. Now
we had forgotten the rules, the aim.
Naturally, we were all to blame, but
nobody wanted to accept the burden
of the shame that comes with it,
so fingers were pointed in literally
every direction. You could say
that an insurrection was brewing.
But that still seems insufficient.
Of course, we weren’t necessarily
doing anything about it, and
as the red sun bowed out, and
the curtains dropped, we stood there
chattering endlessly like boring insects.
-r. miller
*Insert Propaganda Here* 