The saddest part
is that it never stops raining,
and the rain brings no promise or purpose,
only gray shadows that thrust
thin needles into your chest.

A cold conundrum of a morning
rests on the fields, yielding
its weeping truth
to whomever is brazen enough
to demand it. I’ve relinquished
my hand in the matter.
In return, I receive a smattering
of platitudes haphazardly arranged
upon a cracked porcelain platter.
Some nourishment!

Who can flourish under these conditions?
Apparitions arise like cries from the horizon
and sulk in the damp, despairing clouds.
I move among them unnoticed,
unsubstantiated, my nerve
negated by nervousness,
my discernment dislocated.

-r. miller

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