This here is my birthright.
A little fight, a little fear,
and a whiplash sneer
through day’s vague draperies.

I harbor a lust so papery thin
you’d call me a saint.
I wind to the rhythmic strains of tension.
A suspension of verbs holds sway

in the darkening din.
I have no say in the matter,
trapped among the chatter
sleazing up the neon fabrications

of a loose sun
filled with feathery plight.
The melancholy is a flattering fix
for the quick slips

into derangement
I suffer on the daily.
Gaily, clouds come fluttering,
weaving a robe of inclement weather.

-r. miller


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