445.

With a look, as if
the sun itself rose within
my bones, calls for need.

444.

Your heart a tender
apéritif to tease the
soul's wanting palate.

443.

There are a million
pictures wearing my face out
there and none reflect.

442.

Hungry to make new
fodder for the, as ever,
growing hate machine.

441.

Left to an obtuse
pyromaniac to set
fire to my bones.

440.

Very little of
what we think is anything
but repetition.

439.

Peace, an elusive
wonder by which all souls wait
by the side for turns.