The half-legged triumph
spears coldly, we wind-weary dregs
off guard and off the rails, upon reflection.
Once discussed, the deflection disgraces.
A certain look about the faces
gone gray for but one December
appeals to my revelatory sense, assuredly.
We owe no penance, no patience.
Vapor steadily cloaks the passage.
Vocalize abruptly for satisfaction.
We find us in the end supremely heretical,
however sleep-deprived.
I’ve lived through this already, you know,
for more than just fun.

-r. miller

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