Adversity in the avant-garde.
The head we babble
slightly figures aggro rush.
I spent my last red cent.
Adversity twitters. Slow hiccups
move across the length of room.
Doomsayers and stolen prayers.
With a moon in her eye, she vaults
soundlessly the abyss between us.
I drag my bones through her soil,
scope her frame with gelded gaze.
Hazy spaces… For grappling heartache
sift the rubble amid our path
broad swatches of azure and gray
in flummoxed air. Heat
lingering in the abyss between us.
She vaulted. I played dead.
-r. miller
*Insert Propaganda Here* 