There was something in the way…
Light or varied ephemera
or a sonata or other(ness).
Nowhere, we bothered the infinite.
Placed doubts discreetly
and played with our hair.
We were all out of caring,
cluttered and clattering.
From the stairwell, a murmuring…
She departed
with a handful of rust,
bad intentions trailing her gown.
-r. miller
*Insert Propaganda Here* 