3/22/17

Standard

Triple axioms grace the mantle
of my adolescent allegories,
and sometimes, a few stories up,
where in white washed rooms,
people offer up their obscure prayers
to an even more obscure deity
with scarlet eyes, storms erupt in chorus.
If the idea isn’t to bore us into
a drooling stupor, it feels an awful lot
like it could be. I still have
some psychic damage from the last time,
fuck you very much. Very soon,
some wayward pressure is going
to force its way through the windows
and make of a mockery
of my self-conceit.
Beats fabricating shadows,
if you know what I mean.

-r. miller

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