I in atrophy bled
whispered heat,
screeching valiantly
in venomous streets,
varicose and sour.
Cowering beneath creeds,
six lips read a redness.
We defend the bruises,
babble on about
weak-wristed fame.
Nada tropes and
ropes of greased bone.
I go it alone for
the final time this night.
-r. miller
*Insert Propaganda Here* 