Truly a touching display,
violent ephemera come to rest
politely on the periphery.
The scrolling clouds offer up
bite-sized wisdom in passing,
but using a language no one speaks.
And the springtime air variously reeks
of rain, lavender, and loneliness.
We may apply a fine gloss
to the surface of this rough-hewn moment
should we choose to accept it,
for what it is and what it represents.
We may hold it close
with great care and contempt,
for as long as our hands
are capable of grasping.
-r. miller
*Insert Propaganda Here* 