A Vitriol We Can Stomach

Under formaldehyde jitters,
blue sun withering in its slum,
unfocused terra ululates limply.
Unforeseen calculations burn up
amid misanthropy in pairs.
We have only our necks.
The nexus of disappearing.
A frailty like a siege.
By the whispering legions of hot pressure
stands a vitriol we can stomach.
Eyelids battened disfunctionally
speaking in a way it lacerates.
The side is for coming clean
corpse martial woes.
And in one lip grows a mire,
in the other grows a rose.

-r. miller

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