Dressed to forswear,
wage, withstand
horizon’s milky glare.
This air is unsuitable,
so we’ve determined.
The weather fastens
to the square of land,
so we’ve determined.
A minor fluster
in the upheaval of twilight.
Cold grimace
uprooting her countenance,
mine own expression withering.
Light slithering inexorably
toward some vacancy.
All of us hanging in perpetuity.
Luster flummoxing, in perpetuity.
To stray in accordance
with what shape of denial.
Not one gaze trained
uprooting her countenance.
Cantos for seeming
apocalypse pulling
the color from her lips.
-r. miller
*Insert Propaganda Here* 