3.22.19

Standard

Lies an innuendo breathe
through ill-lit social circles,
a miasma for the faint-of-heart
to relish. Relinquish deliciously
that which keeps hostage.
I’m not captivated, simply inundated.
Certainly, the light of the ill-fated diminishes…
But not discretely. A pale hand moves
to cover the camera eye.
The sky is a flat gray wall
which no color can breach.
Reach out to the margins, children.

-r. miller

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