Lone Wolf Syndrome

Standard

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

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