Withdrawing from the suicide pact, one retreats
to the compost of naive romanticism. We are made
stronger by the slop and sludge. Later,
we can get busy, perhaps fudge a few
of the details about how we came
to be merely appendages of a more
genuine monstrosity, seen lately,
rampaging through prominent corners
of this postage stamp of a failed state.
Don’t worry too profusely, for these flowers
of derision seen sprouting at random intervals
will soon and silently abate,
leaving all to their own (de)vices
and half-baked, home-fried comforts.

-r. miller

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