How late we were expected
and in rusty chimes.
Fingers – thusly – in his craw –
fatten and fatten.
My persona is limitless
and my hunger, encompassing.
Strange notes in the air tonight.
Soon the call erupts,
we’ve forgotten the scars
the money made.
Cold infantile grins –
hewn with – less than – precision.
-r. miller
*Insert Propaganda Here* 