550.

The world is staggered
under the weight of a year's
impending resolve.

549.

An army of drunks
swarming in expectation
of absent magic.

548.

The air is hung with
a haze of yearning today.
Empty hopes abound.

547.

The fomenting tide
is ever swelling up in
threat of a breaking.

546.

An anchor around
my neck of desecrated
bones, set to choking.

545.

Can you hear my heart
crying out toward you in
emotion's sonar?

544.

There is a voice in
-side my throat that chokes me if
left too long unheard.