11.12.18

Standard

Beneath the blood pact,
sizzling, somewhere is established
in full-swing. We get by on rudeness,
ruthlessness, and malignance.

The long suffering doesn’t disembark.
Anyway, here is my wherefore.
Always we’re eaten by the rules we enact
to placate peace in its sanctimonious dorm.

In a perfect world, I worm patiently,
discreetly, my way into the pulp of its chaos.
The stuff that dreams are made of.

Yet through the screams
blusters a bungled tune from youth,
and all come to rest in its crescendo.

-r. miller

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