8/9/17

Standard

An anomaly is approaching
the surface of this thought
woven from dry, brittle yarns
whose colors have faded
and ceased to captivate
more discerning eyes.
Of course the time
for despising has passed.
The downcast pedestrians
retreat into yearning, arms crossed,
pockets full of remembrance,
poking holes in the fog.
Catalogs of ghost towns
rest easy on the pyres
with which we’ll commemorate
the waxen moon.
We tread with irregular step
across these dunes of salt and bother,
false brothers and sisters
until the end peels back its velvet skin.
Within each of us is a hymn to the sea.
As the electric storm of our pride
expends itself in azure sputters,
the melody runs its fingers
through the sky.
The reply is vapor.
Needlessly, a hair is disturbed.
A paper rose is crushed.

-r. miller

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