The Sophists

A crimson veil hung over the acropolis,
shaken and stirred by the murmurs
in the air. You revealed the staircase

leading to the upper levels of your pathos,
extending your hand to nobody in particular.
I accepted, hesitantly, your invitation.

Thus we entered into a gestation period
of sorts. We made a blanket fort
of every enterprise we’ve ever undertaken,

and slept for several hours only to awaken
with our priorities in a tangle.
Like an argument strangled by its premise,

we were divested of Truth.
Cold daylight ripped the sky.
Tribulation slipped through.

-r. miller

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