It’s midnight and I haven’t written anything worth reading

Affixed to a strange fixation,
wearing hands and careless needles,
I rub elbows with empty thoughts
pouring through my inner gaze.
Dazed flow, viscous like dog day August.
Present tense in passing. Coming
I, the bravery, to save now for later.
I, the bravery, an equator of solipsism.
The last drop of satisfaction
from the inside meat.
The clouds, clad in sleet, calculating retreat,
and measuring rain day by day.
I sleep the sleep that comes naturally
to those bruised by the light.
Stoically, I renounce a sad, tattered flag,
the hag of these states, losing
in weight what I’ve gained in weighing.

-r. miller

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