Through

Calling all chimeras.
All’s not well in the hills,
the forests, the streets.
The myriad fruits and meats
of our grander schemes
have spoiled in the heat of passion.
And I’m still not up on the latest fashion.
I’ve got ears where my eyes should be
and I sing through my fingers.
All day the thought lingers
in the lotus patch where
it drowses with distinction,
untroubled by its imminent extinction
or the ill-mannered winds
that will carry its corpse away.
The vanguard is coming
with their sinister scalpels
and devious designs, so what am I,
the perpetual gadfly, to do?
The only way out is through.
What matters is what
persistence ruptures.

-r. miller

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