It’s uninspiring, the rain’s gray aria
so we lay our little weapons down
in rows and thicken with the clouds.
Moving phantom-like through crowds,
I keep tabs on my pulse, diminishing
in the dinning poised to subdue
the silence. Images of violence
parade across the mind’s still screen.
We careen into a darker
version of ourselves, and pull
the light from the other’s gaze,
sinking slowly in the winter haze.
-r. miller
*Insert Propaganda Here* 