522.

The bruise of winter's
shade reaches out its hungry
fingers. Consuming.

521.

A low bank of clouds
hang over this house, steady
foreshadowing here.

520.

Left to animals
treated so much better than
so many people.

519.

A failing of the
body that should touch each of
our fragile soul's heart.

518.

What is memory
but a disease of senses,
taunting body's loss?

517.

And so youth slips from
us, just as we finally
learn to decipher.

516.

The gentle kiss of
a chilled morning sky lures me
to a fool's parade.