Moody is the monster
whose unwieldy balls are brains.
Its distress claims many,
who are also broken, used-up,
and alone. It grows
and grows fat in a climate
of vicious steaming angst.
And yet this selfsame climate
demands too much of this our monster,
moody with the weight
of its dangling brains.
See how sluggishly it moves?
How languorously it loafs
beneath the scarlet sun?
Poor old moody monster,
what a state you’re in!
What a mess you have become!
Lie still, you overabundant beast,
lie still, that you may finally taste
the sweetness of your dying breath.

-r. miller

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