3.13.19

With dystopian flourish,
the itch resonates, stimulates
politely to withering degrees.
Like hush we fall sequential rains.
By all pains determined,
the ball of speech solidifying gently.
Turn us all against me
in the mollifying drops,
for I am disagreement and shudder not.
Come slow rot, morning dysmorphia.
Remembrance shifts soundlessly
towards a discontinuity.

-r. miller

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