We uphold the least satisfying.
Dying in mid-flight, negligent words
whose harshness disenchants.
New skin for new thoughts.
I’d sought some sort of ending,
mending the spines
of numberless books.
Shook sentiments.
Too poor for the rents.
Distant arguments rush in
through the cracks in the glass.
Please, pass the petulance.
Ghoulish grins pasted on the faces
of the self-appointed martyrs.
We upstarts, backhanded
and sentenced to sleep.

-r. miller

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