We mire in rock slumber.
Limping fragments, the space limiting.
You place a bag over the head
of my desiring. Bought chokeholds.
The grief in the gullet.
Two bullets, one flesh.
I a crumbling, you a stumbling, we a furnace.
The motion that moves us
moves malady. Fortuitous rush
of abject colorless mind.
Turn off the syntax proper.
Come harder.
-r. miller
*Insert Propaganda Here* 