The Mantra

Spit-shine this attempt at camaraderie,
Metallic aftertaste over taking the tongue.
Onlookers cook in our furnace of thought to
Keep the fire in our futurist swag.
Even if the walls were collapsing, it’s a job
Well done, and a fun one at that.
Even the evening cleansing its cooling heart
Eventually leaves us, so why cling to anything?
Desire suits you, as does despair.
Every red blooded despair that’s ensnared you in its
Vapors. We’re rebels, though not necessarily loners,
Embittered stoners with burly bones and
Rouge in our eyes. Our skies are frayed, raising
Yellow fists against the heavens that house them.
Douse the fire in your throat.
Avoid yourself at all costs – it’s how I’m assured
You won’t ever be lost.

-r. miller


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