Stir Crazy

It happens in a flash –
the sulking of a lifetime climbs skyward
to club the sun with clouds.
I take to the shrouded streets
with a mouth of molten air,
scaring the kindness out of strangers.
Never has the danger
of disconnection been so apparent.
My larynx is broken
and I’m brimming
with unspoken sentiments.
These pent-up, discontented entities
circumvent my fevered brain,
which feigns surprise,
and faints like a metaphor
drained of all its content.

-r. miller

The Poets are Preening

The poets are preening,
having weaned themselves off
the milk of modest hysteria
they’d so long nursed on
and grew to dislike intensely.

Epiphanies and elegies take to the skies
only to burn up midflight.
Par for the course.

The poets huddle close
beneath the hoarse whispers
issued from the cold.

To think these once emboldened prophets
who spat feral stanzas at the moon
now merely croon listless lullabies
to pacify the pinioned beast
whose gnarled fangs are Truth.

-r. miller