A futile passion

It’s like it never happened before,
and the realization sweeps.
There walks the god
who resides in the wires.
Kindle these pale fires correctly.
The oeuvre once bitten into.
And though my blemishes dispirit,
the open house must go on.
You’ll recognize my birthright
sure enough, an enigma
vaporized of its own volition,
valorized in ten to twelve business days.
That’s a racket or such,
my inner groping.
I’ll run rampant in the cooling room,
but moping. Good friends
appear bearing distraction
on their ample shoulders,
and suddenly, I’m much older
than I thought I was.

-r. miller

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