Age of Enlightenment

What an absolute fucking farce.
New age psychosis
pulls my eyelids tight
and doesn’t even say it’s sorry,
while spectral favors drift
o’er the margins of the one-man party
I’ve been throwing endlessly
to commemorate all past, present,
and future quarter-life crises.
It’s been literal eons since
I’ve put a finger to my own face,
and it shows. I can’t believe
that anyone would stand,
let alone fall,
for an injustice such as this.
My last pen is milked dry.
A few stanzas about martial law
and sleep paralysis titter shyly
amongst themselves.
I sure could use a goodnight kiss right now,
but who wants to put their money
where my mouth is?
It’s all gone sour anyway,
and lingers like a personal fantasy
of being plucked apart
seam by seam.

-r. miller