The mirror fails to uncover
matter's truth:
light is affliction
a fiction
sweet or sour diction
prepared to lie to whichever
eye sits before another
faulty organ.
Low sounds course through
the river ritual:
we die after we spawn,
it makes parenting easier.
Don't call it a cynic,
it's an iron cycle:
the magnet's magenta
flushes files
back to a future
no one deserves.
Snap, shot,
it's shotgun season,
dears are wishing
letters were the kind of ammunition
that lives through a barrel.
Sontag wouldn't approve:
gun analogies are a cancer.
It's a dour society
that sees itself out the window
smashing windows
and draws the blinds.
Roman Ryan 