In lurching
and strange cadence,
the wake up fizzles.
Slow and sympathetic.
A palpable decline
clouds the glass.
The wires in his eyes,
fermenting.
The chords in his
fingertips…
Dry, decrepit words
collapse in his throat
and the ruins melt
into a buttery sea
of mucous.
The camera
shifts its focus
to a darkened corner
of the room, where
a scarlet silhouette
has soaked
into the carpet….
-r. miller
*Insert Propaganda Here* 