Scary grave things, and the like…
We have our moments, to be sure,
but assuredly, let’s face it,
we barely peak.
The way I speak
of what our speech portends
doesn’t need a lot of music,
which means that this all ends
without a melody to carry me
back where the pines tremble
beneath a clipped fingernail moon.
I can’t believe the slurry swoon
I have to undergo
just to get my bearings.
That thunder-blow
to my impulse for honesty
really did a number, didn’t it?
Not that I’m dumber, anyway,
disillusioned mostly, and maybe
disengaged. But this can be
assuaged with a little tender
resignation to the context,
the madness it implies,
and the choke-hold that comes next.

-r. miller

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