The surface is all-too-plain,
though its sheen is disquieting.
Appropriate to some, reflecting
all that goes unforgiven.

So I amble aimless
through the wilderness
which grew out of my intention
to be other. I grasp willingly
at an idée fixe
bent on smothering me
in its assertions.

Disprove me, why don’t you.
Leave me to the rain’s
imprisoning stanza that teethes
greedily on the bare horizon
of doubt. Some things
turn out alright only after
they’ve collapsed upon us
and torrents of real pain
charge swiftly o’er the debris.

-r. miller

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