I gave it to you
in blisters, rosy
and divine.
How sadly a life
hangs by its own devices…
A moment’s specialness
ruthlessly divides.
Without imagination.
The foreground of error.
We tune our hands
to what we weave.
By insecurity thrust
headfirst into gulfs
of burning sand.
With a harshness
of throat no balm
could soothe.
Our legacy is thirst.
-r. miller
*Insert Propaganda Here* 