Your legacy shifts its weight,|
pouring its liquid gaze
o’er brazen streets,
beating papery wings.
The sky sings in overly
melancholy tones.
The bones of the beleaguered
narrative break.
No big. You had
no stake in it anyway.
You only wanted
to get your kicks
with a stick shift and light
the fuse of the fuss.
You always lived
like you were waiting
on a bus. Now
the bus waits on you.
-r. miller
*Insert Propaganda Here* 