I hadn’t thought it through.
I hadn’t devoted quite enough attention
to the details as they drifted
through the space between dream and fever.
As the cream of morning rises
to a barren height, light breaks
like a dropped mirror.
Time to memorize the terrors
twisting ’round the gate.
Time to breathe the hatred
into waking. My only wish
is that the quaking in my eyes
subsides so that I can see
in still-life again.
-r. miller
*Insert Propaganda Here* 