In the morning, his bones were tears.
Crossing the wires, he fears
the new contamination cozied up beside him.
The air of dismissiveness divides itself
into segments of varying depth.
“Thus we are restrained,” he sighs,
“though exaltation gilds our veins.”
This all could have been expressed in song,
had my throat not been clogged with cobwebs,
had we popped the lid off
the insurgency we’d been planning
for the next big holiday. We could have had
any color we wanted, but the beige
settled in after only a moment’s indecision.
His precision waned
as both the moon and his brain waxed.
He drew his breaths only vaguely
in he humid dark. We threw down,
just to test the spark.
Midnight chimed excessively.
-r. miller
*Insert Propaganda Here* 