8.28.19

It’s all going to go
somewhere. Immaterial perhaps,
but then again, aren’t we all?

The slumber slated
for mid-daze blooms
ahead of schedule
to the elation of the enervated.

On an unrelated note,
we float towards heaven
with a highball for each hand.
We’ve applied a brand
new face for the occasion.

All is lazy meandering,
lullabies, and lilac mist.

Somewhere in the past,
a land of balled fists
undulates less expressively,
less purposefully,
as it slides
down memory’s throat.

-r. miller