O! the special smells,
frivolous colors of my half-steeped life.
With candor do I approach
the storm’s winking eye.
From here on out – fresh hell,
hand grenades, and a mouthful
of empty threats. I hold a promise
like a pose, beneath a clutter of sky.
My machismo’s started bleeding
from all angles, cooled to a crisp
beneath a blue emboldened star.
“How much farther?”
shouts the patience I never knew I had,
“until the next and final rest stop?”
-r. miller
*Insert Propaganda Here* 