Left of Me

Melody aligns whispers
to sway the scales in longing.

The thwarted strides
of flowers in the elegy.

I cavern the feeling,
fuming sense of rememberance

wheeling for the strings,
and so aloft on wounded wing,

sing the hopeless to the fold.
Cobalt, so swift

of sincerity mellows cold
in showering spumes,

and for each breath, a weight
to bear the soaring down.

I am always finding myself
alone in places I

don’t want to be,
always merging

with a nervousness
that rises like a sea.

Stutter soft, my accidents –
you’re all that’s left of me.

-r. miller


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