A word or two had slipped
into a coma before I realized
the full extent of my recklessness.
I leapt into gear and got busy
getting down to business.
Something beautiful found its way
into my veins, while a less beautiful
something erupted in my eyes.
I guess that fries it, I remember saying
with only a trace of casual defeatism,
and thus I churned, burning
with a marginal resolve.
The specter of a place
called home steamrolled the hope
I’d been sluggishly building,
and in the end, I declared it inevitable.
Since then, I’ve done nothing
but keep my hands to myself.

-r. miller

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