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
*Insert Propaganda Here* 