We fed our little firebrand on roots and tonic water.
The madness of the muddled era had given us a daughter
of revolution. So all thoughts affixed to evolution
seemed to redirect their aims. From then on, it was pollution.

Gray pollution, extending slender arms toward tawny clouds.
We tossed our perfumes on the ground to incite the dimming crowds
to action. They just shuffled slightly, then dispersed without a sound,
leaving vapor trails behind them, swirling all around.

We stood appalled and rank with thunder under the wicked veil,
murmuring amongst ourselves, wondering what would entail.
Surely life would not go on the way it had before
now that accidents and anger had shaken up the floor.

“All is cursed!” said the empaths and most were quick to agree
that every facet of our milieu was afflicted with anxiety.
Some turned their heads and coughed, others gripped their ears
and fled in all directions, drenching the streets with tears.

Me, I took the looking glass and booked it to the boonies,
disheveled and exasperated. I’d had it with these loonies!
Their talk, their trash, their lack of sense, it all seemed so unreal.
My footsteps left scars so deep the earth began to squeal.

It was heaven. It was rancor. It was everything in between.
But sometimes, you have to take things lying down. If you get what I mean.
Later on, as summer ebbed, webs of light were seen to fall.
“The fire and the will are one,” they cried, lilting softly like a pall.

-r. miller

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