914.

Bring on the drunken
messery you bastards, to
celebrate the same.

913.

Hemmed in by empty
resolutions on paper
instead of just done.

912.

Teetering unsure
feet on the ledge of a change
more ideal than real.

911.

Never, not ever,
says the realist within that
tunes out hope, reaching.

910.

But then when isn't
the lie far more a truth in
the end anymore?

909.

Altogether more
fabricated myth instead
of reality.

908.

Found in a day dressed
up in lights and money, called
some kind of honor.

907.

Irony in a
retarded motor reaching
toward its zenith.

906.

A catharsis in
progress. Stunt brain and restart
heart, manually.

905.

Leak those emotions
out from the skin until it
is just bone left shelled.

904.

The gaping maw of
a choice without one. Next up,
an attempt to bleed.

903.

Forgetting that then
it is surrounded. Acid
below, teeth above.

902.

Instead it drops down
to the stomach, hoping to
hide under the ribs.

901.

Pointless endeavors
of the trapped cage in chest that
still needs an escape.

900.

Gorge on the feelings
within and never should its
power leave again.

899.

A permanent cure
in its inexorable
determination.

898.

A hungry mouth fixed
toward heart's continual,
pointless endeavors.

897.

When overridden
the expending turns back on
itself. Cannibal.

896.

Forgetting in its
machinations that it is
built with set reason.

895.

The mystery of
veins unwound in gentle love's
faulty intentions.

894.

A search for the soft
compass within. All points turn
backwards. Rewind heart.

893.

If but only the
effort expended in turns
would merit difference.

892.

Pressed deep into the
haze of this entrenched disease...
and on the spokes turn.

891.

Then somehow wonder
why we're all so locked into
denial's fever.

890.

It's enough to make
one believe humans reversed
their evolution.

889.

A horrifying
thought. Modern teenagers and
me all inverted.

888.

Talk about an end
of year's sad little wrapup.
Adult me, rewound.

887.

Now I sound like I'm
threatening vampires in
haiku - and badly.

886.

The gamble always
begs for change. So skeletons
rousted, dawn comes new.

885.

Choice left in its grasp.
To stay rooted in the past
or free toward more.

884.

An extension of
hope wrapped up in a pretty
little illusion.

883.

Slates everywhere
wiped clean. A world's too ready
used snow globe affect.

882.

Here a difference
is needed. Some change surfeit
to cross this divide.

881.

The abyss of the
perennial little, sad
girl left without play.

880.

A presumption, first,
that some care could be founded
in absence's gulf.

879.

Or so the cynic
whispers into the long night,
no love will leave here.

878.

A game of conjoined
heartache. Twins to a captured
path to destruction.

877.

Rotting away at
individualism
so only we lives.

876.

Perhaps this is the
real reason that love is so
oft called a disease.

875.

Is this what giving
truly means? The road of slow
heart's subjugation?

874.

And on that puppet
keeps getting jerked and played for
the others' pleasures.

873.

Regurgitation,
set up like the sweetest of
tender seductions.

872.

But then isn't all
of life a neverending
continuation?

871.

The circuitious
nature of it all. Such a
tedious cycle.

870.

Mired down in a
pattern that breeds redundant.
Give and take, stasis.

869.

Sometimes I wonder
why any of us really
keep on bothering.

868.

Swept under the slow
progress of constancy in
love's tired journey.

867.

A corrosion of
the heart's lining, trickling out.
Just blood and air left.

866.

No matter how the
cover is dressed, the inside
always still leaking.

865.

Such odd circuition
trapped within the folds of each
small relationship.

864.

Here, adrift in an
ocean of stuttered and missed
communications.

863.

A living body
hollowed out and filled back
with a machine's heart.

862.

Kill, consume, or use -
the mantra of the seasoned
abuser. Human.

861.

Ironic that our
lives persist in the face of
continual death.

860.

The sole barriers
torn down and dressed up to warm
our dying cockles.

859.

A million lonely
trees left to stand sentry, bare
of skin and foilage.

858.

The bleeding murder
of color, leeched from the sky
and vomited down.

857.

A kaleidoscope,
muted in autumn's shadow,
strewn across the ground.

856.

The slow crawl toward
winter begins with mornings
hung in fog and ice.

855.

A celebration
found in color, joy, and death
together again.

854.

And the cusp brings out
the barrage of saints and close
skeleton's parade.

853.

Get out and dance in
the horror tonight children.
The blood will wash out.

852.

Little else is as
enjoyable than a good
quality freakout.

851.

An elicited
scare that makes for faster hearts
and louder laughter.

850.

There should be more than
one Halloween set out each
year for adult play.

849.

Faces all dressed up
for frivolity and fun,
found in screams and sweets.

848.

The sky starts its slow
descent. Preparation for
the horrors to come.

847.

The odd silences
of a technology free
house, surreality.

846.

That fragile heart, made
of romance and confusion,
holds its secrets close.

845.

A stalemate between.
The contradiction of man
when interest is gleaned.

844.

It is the hidden
that draws one to want more but
only if appeased.

843.

Not even in love
will something unique ever
again yet exist.

842.

This world is made of
caricatures and we just
unfinished designs.

841.

Or is our staggered
indemnity prepaid in
its pounds of stripped flesh?

840.

Never realizing
that the actors are instead
owed some recompense.

839.

How many scenes have
we been miming over the
years, always paying?

838.

Did you wear the mask
of Allendy? And what of
the extras between?

837.

Did the roles switch with
repetition? Have I been
Hugo, June, Lawrence?

836.

Which two sides of that
affair were we? Me, the first
her? And you, Henry?

835.

I am reading in
the dark, Anais Nin, and
suddenly I see.

834.

A power failure.
Only in the dark are my
accomplishments met.

833.

Infatuation
creeps in on insidious
feet. Soft destruction.

832.

There is a comfort
in this growing rage. Change come
with vengeance, punch drunk.

831.

Fear a disjointed
compass that only leads me
astray. Excuses.

830.

Yet another year
passing into the mirror
with wishes heavy.

829.

Today a gentle
cacophony of joy. I
live. So just love me.

828.

Can we ever find
escape from the ghosts in our
skin? Scars keep speaking.

827.

We are an ocean,
adrift and tumultuous,
seeking some anchor.

826.

No one will ever
match me as close as you do.
Bare skinned and beating.

825.

At least some comfort
to the love in need of its
illusions, intact.

824.

Bury me with my
puzzles so your version can
be reality.

823.

Hearts unknowing of
the secrets between, digging.
False impressions all.

822.

Who knows what will be
abandoned to mystery
when our notebooks speak.

821.

Absence and questions
left strewn among staggered dreams
and love's confessions.

820.

Here times passes in
some caricature of a
Lynch surrealism.

819.

Surrender culled in
the cold hands of mist, reaching.
Casablanca found.

818.

A beautiful cast
of nature, turning. Autumn
in colors bursting.

817.

My world returned to
that place of bounty and fog.
Richly strewn in fall.

816.

Renewal found in
slow blinks and soft slumber. A
starlight's paradise.

815.

Finally, a break.
Waves crest, ebb, and hope washes
up. Clean and fervent.

814.

Arms out, reaching, yet
growing steadily more tired.
Redundant motion.

813.

An underwater
play of slow motion, stuck
on outs, stuttering.

812.

Circuitous turns
of a tedious pattern.
Rewind, change, repeat.

811.

Offering some vague
credence to an existence
of more than mind knows.

810.

Only changed in the
course of manifestation
that forces union.

809.

The truest you that
exists beyond skin and bone
to just thoughts and cells.

808.

Reversing the long
held illogic of defects
instead just nature.

807.

Either the strangest
anomalies hidden or
true intention found.

806.

Some confusion born
in those first cells merging. Wrong
parts put together.

805.

The face shown outward
so different from the heart in-
side. Dichotomy.

804.

Such irony on
the underside of all our
feelings unresolved.

803.

A fear of its roots,
turned back and fostering deep,
a true reflection.

802.

Perhaps this is then
the secret judgment against
the mentally ill.

801.

A private man's hell,
out about and walking for
all the world to see.

800.

When our monsters wear
the skin of people who still
live to be taunting.

799.

The most depressing
kind of fables, wrapped in real
events that haunt we.

798.

Clawing hands and feet
in desperation against
immutable force.

797.

Any wonder that
the paranoid always seek
some outward escape?

796.

Overseen by its
watchers. Cataloging each
twitch for its story.

795.

A vision cast in
duality. An echo
of the heart inside.

794.

It all begins in
a small room, cornered by sharp
edges meant to blunt.

793.

And the upside down
world returns, bearing a new
tide to wash away.

792.

Cause the sand castle
of those dreams is eroding
past the shore beneath.

791.

And is the only
thing of value to be fought
for right now and on.

790.

No matter the line
drawn between points of fiction,
realism persists.

789.

Because what is wrong
is not something a book or
its author can fix.

788.

So have your faith but
also rationality
and action behind.

787.

But no amount of
shoveling or sand buries
what's needed beyond.

786.

Any decision
on what to believe in is
just for you reader.

785.

Even if every
action given goes against
what it claims to be.

784.

Because nothing will
ever matter more than the
show of a belief.

783.

So you should all give
up teaching truth and respect,
which you don't believe.

782.

Disregarding the
clear reality that they
simply don't factor.

781.

By offering an
absence of faith in their God
as blame instead choice.

780.

Thus replacing the
world's responsibility
to effect difference.

779.

Instead we get mass
prayer groups aimed at fixing some
non-religious ill.

778.

When hard work and change
are issues of action and
not just group wishes.

777.

How has control been
given to people who don't
follow kids lessons?

776.

Then look to blame those
same facts for not working when
it all falls apart.

775.

Regardless of the
facts against stupidity.
Enough can prevail.

774.

The bastion of the
irrational, if you don't
agree, just deny.

773.

I'm baffled that math
somehow became an issue
people can debate.

772.

The neverending
cycle of castigation
that just keeps maiming.

771.

Overseen by the
harsh mistress, discontent, that
turns into anger.

770.

A fragile balance
of restrictions, holding self
hostage to demand.

769.

Such dramatics for
inner fodder. The critic
within who feeds hate.

768.

Next up, a sideshow
of arms and bleeding topped with
a soul's crown of thorns.

767.

An army of slow
perception. Judgments accrued
for absent honor.

766.

I hang myself out
on limbs for mere hopes of what
the yous might yet think.

765.

Recognized by the
taunt's outline in a mirror
peripherally.

764.

A haunting refrain
that wields a cruel suffering
in its amnesia.

763.

Games of memory
and forgetting, suffused yet
inside all the lies.

762.

The litany of
my history washes up
against my senses.

761.

An impulse toward
distrust, rooted deep from the
very beginning.

760.

What might be changed if
but that first lesson had been
left to its teaching?

759.

Learning to forget
the first betrayal in a
line ever growing.

758.

So kids wake at night,
paranoid sentinels of
a fading birth day.

757.

A sudden rip from
one's home called some brutal form
of celebration.

756.

Is it any real
wonder that resentment so
often starts early?

755.

Then comes the moment
of birth, a near murder by
womb's suffocation.

754.

Making pre-birth our
natural state: in water,
kicking life support.

753.

Born as if by sea,
in a pool of fluid that
bears our gestation.

753.

Born as if by sea,
in a pool of fluid that
bears our gestation.

752.

We are all, at heart,
just bombs. Waiting for time to
pull destruction's pin.

751.

LIttle girl of plays
with no role left to comfort
her oblivion.

750.

An interior
sight turned thoughtlessly out and
strangely defenseless.

749.

Held up, a contrast
in motion. Lost to meaning
left un-juxtaposed.

748.

A skewed vision cast
in illumination but
needing its shadow.

747.

Denying the stage
of a shelf's passion, like so
much slow artifice.

746.

Hers was an act of
repudiation, shunning
that which mirrored back.

745.

Dressed in wonder and
web's capture. This seduction
a trap in vision.

744.

The veil of my heart,
tempered by the weight of all
obvious deceit.

743.

Where only cliffs and
falls will ever feature in
the false wish for change.

742.

Too often dressed like
sheep and full of the same blind
mirror destruction.

741.

The armies, always
persistent with followers,
that breed tendencies.

740.

If only tangents
were not so easily made
belief by others.

739.

Certain, from a slow
night's hypochondria, that
it's death manifest.

738.

Before the gentle
poison of affection is
shunned out of dumb fear.

737.

Eating up the last
space left for logic to be
and love to succeed.

736.

The paranoid's dream,
where a disease can reach past
reason into brains.

735.

Communication
of any sort a promise
for further advance.

734.

Jumping skin-to-skin
and tongue-to-tongue, taking out
any way to warn.

733.

One mouth ties itself
into two and on the rot
just keeps on spreading.

732.

Here, kissing becomes
nothing more than a disease
of soft transference.

731.

An eventual
murder, passing person-to-
-person by word's touch.

730.

Living out its last
years in that mouth, sending out
curses with each breath.

729.

A rotting expanse
caught up in roots to find new
homes for destruction.

728.

The sick, sour smell
of a soul crawling up its
throat in slow escape.

727.

A slow game of kill
inching through a body in
incremental death.

726.

Trying to hide all
the ways a body starts to
rot from the inside.

725.

Beginning the work
of staving off decay as
long as possible.

724.

Sometimes I think that
the dentist is just like an
early mortician.

723.

Forever rewound
in an entire people's
reverb of motion.

722.

Where every movement
is echoed in the mirror
of its audience.

721.

Dancing history
and ghosts across a puppet's
well-worn lover's stage.

720.

Making us all now
just hollow ventriloquists
with props inside.

719.

But what in passion
isn't some repeat of a
long past encounter?

718.

A subjugation
that makes victim of its lost
master. Such cliche.

717.

Nor fully slacken
the fervor of its greed that
drives further heart's gain.

716.

Here, she is the one
in control. Desperate to
never cede lust.

715.

An opposite world
from what the patriarchy
had led to believe.

714.

Gleeful evidence
that anyone could be turned
out by their own need.

713.

Hungry and vicious,
the litter of love broken
follows in her wake.

712.

A rush of power
finding home in that greedy
heart. So monster born.

711.

A slow reversal
of roles with him bent under
her for the taking.

710.

Learning, by touch, all
the ways a girl could twist a
boy and make him beg.

709.

That first exploring:
fingers, tongues, flesh. So different
than she imagined.

708.

A wild surrender
to her passions. Lock on heart
open and frenzied.

707.

But is being mere
watcher any different?
Pot and kettles all.

706.

Slow taunts for what they
will never admit reaching
out for, such cowards.

705.

An underground show,
illicitly drawn out in
tease for the masses.

704.

A bohemian
figure, seducing viewers
by point of difference.

703.

He moves in twilight,
his body a weapon of
discontent. Wielding.

702.

A nervous dance of
innuendo, throwing doubt
against the lie's shield.

701.

What an empty choice
of characterization.
Pandering dumb down.

700.

Cast in memory,
a complicit sideshow of
the unnatural.

699.

An elaborate
play, orchestrated in aid
of propped delusions.

698.

Hung for framing in
the demimonde, set by dark,
intrigue, and shadows.

697.

Clouds of denial
hang heavy in this setting,
scared to be what is.

696.

And on autistic
fiefdoms begin their sweeping,
thankless, empty rule.

695.

Cast in separatist
notions of wholes that never
fufill their designs.

694.

Keyed by misanthropes,
lost under the growing tide
of disproportion.

693.

The season of a
continual depression
that is never turned.

692.

Sometimes it feels like
the earth might slip its axis
and just disappear.

691.

That heart should come with
tidal warnings for its ebbs
and floods, stuck drowning.

690.

Tripping clumsy feet
over the motivations
needed forward on.

689.

Empty wishes and
desultory dreams, caught in
a mood's slow progress.

688.

A call for adults
to be the responsible
ones that are needed.

687.

Let them be children
and decide for themselves when
their brain can grasp it.

686.

Not to negate a
person's faith, but to put a
pause on early depth.

685.

Cycles of belief
born in memorization
more than child's choice.

684.

Pressing small hands on
covers, manufacturing
heaven into sleep.

683.

A surrender to
the star's chant for a hopeful
childhood's return.

682.

Dressed in the sparkle
and shine of fantasy from
a girl's early years.

681.

An exploration
of vision and dreams cast in
illumination.

680.

I want to feel the
moon's surface pressed under my
skin in adventure.

679.

I dream in fevers
and live in stasis. Reversed
confusion of days.

678.

I think of that dip
in your stomach that begs me
to shovel it out.

677.

I still think of her
in the oddest moments. A
hollow left unfilled.

676.

Eventually
I will end up back under
that low hemisphere.

675.

There is a lovely
collision in the air of
sun and hope, married.

674.

Les partis français
sont calmes meilleurs vous les
bâtards suffisants.

673.

A sense of hope and
nostalgia, anchoring me
down to this moment.

672.

Every time I see
a skyline recede in the
distance, I feel home.

671.

The clouds move in slow
motion, a calm of senses
caught up in its dream.

670.

A twisted homage
to pirates and bounties, found
in water's embrace.

669.

Bent machinery
crouches over the docks in
a sea's protection.

668.

The sky a hungry
beast, sending its stars out to
eat children alive.

667.

The sound of his voice
coming up through that chest feels
like a heart's echo.

666.

How do we give up
on an entire town's past
and just move away?

665.

The lonely lives of
people in cars, always left
leaving, not staying.

664.

A memory held
in magic that disbelieves
its modern repeat.

663.

What an odd note to
hold up history by
an entire faith.

662.

Tales of possession
masked as a gentle fury
of raging passion.

661.

The scattered tattoo
of bite and suck marks across
that body whispers.

660.

How could so few words
hold the experiences
of a life's meaning?

659.

Victim to a lost
imagination, where lies
and truth interchange.

658.

Another cliched
girl and all her stories held
like stars, stuck falling.

657.

The intersection
of man and beast blurred by turns
of evolution.

656.

An altar of dreams
falls under a cross' weight
on days like today.

655.

The days lined up in
waiting. If only the clocks
would break and time freed.

654.

Until one day we
finally solve the puzzle
and stop repeating.

653.

Of course, this is true
of life's vicious cycles too.
Endless and confused.

652.

But left to always
forget that reflection plays
a game, opposites.

651.

So mood-swings ensue.
One brain and heart trying to
solve mirror's riddle.

650.

A play of extremes
with just one role, never
to get a reprieve.

649.

Trapped in an endless
cycle of dichotomy
painted in heartbeats.

648.

There is a scale in
my ribs forever shifting
side to side for help.

647.

If only a wish
could elicit the same bit
of act's difference.

646.

But to be a small
caterpillar, made beauty
in one change's shrug.

645.

I am now the set
keeper of a history
better left behind.

644.

Held up by the girl
who sees his spine a bounty
of pain and pleasure.

643.

A relationship
found in an emotional
boy's masochism.

642.

And, perhaps, to bask
in the power of each break
in fragility.

641.

A redundant plea
given how much I want to
live that lie myself.

640.

Before you end up,
willfully, breaking your own
stupid, little heart.

639.

So I ask you to
see who I actually
am without that idea.

638.

A complicit cast
of duplicity made from
illusions of love.

637.

Built from the lies of
imagining what you want
instead of what's there.

636.

Then you will recoil
at just the thought of me and
what never was real.

635.

There will come a day
when the closet inside is
pried open, nosy.

634.

The older I get
the more appreciation
I have for things like

compliments and those
characterizations best
deemed subtle and kind.

633.

Made into nothing
by the repetition of
other girls like me.

632.

For every second
I stand stuck, the world moved on
beyond in mocking.

631.

He dressed me up in
his dreams, ignoring the drop
when waking occurred.

630.

A memory's thread,
tied back into everything
I want to forget.

629.

A furious march
of wings and beaks, turned toward
the sun in pleading.

628.

The sky is bright and
grass reaching, a second of
spring in full cycle.

627.

What is your passion
worth when meted out in flesh
and pain, unasked for?

626.

My soul has been up-
-ended and left to filter
its message through lips.

625.

The lilt of luck and
spring, lost to drunkards and fools
on an Irish day.

624.

A night fallen to
condescension and smug wits
sharp parry and thrust.

623.

Blue skies, glinting just
over the horizon in
a slow tease to spring.

622.

The push and pull of
change forever beckons to
feed its needy lust.

621.

And on confusing
arms of time jerk forward to
fuck with our schedules.

620.

This house begins to
settle down into my bones
with a held comfort.

619.

Often I think the
true parable of one's heart
will never be known.

618.

The fragmented soul,
cut into pieces just big
enough to let eat.

617.

Mountains and absent
memory are so often
gone from the hollow.

616.

I am lost, tread on
the road of forgotten hope
and lackluster dreams.

615.

The word patter of
Carson McCullers is stuck
on my tongue tonight.

614.

The entreatment of
that hope fragments, coached in
the veiled threat of love.

613.

I want to roll up
inside that book and let its
words seep into me.

612.

Sometimes I wonder
if the anchors of our past
will ever release.

611.

Never will it be
for me to understand, how
of all the ones who

love (people, hearts, and
things), there is not a one found
who does it like me.

610.

You were the short rhymed
impetus from which words be-
-came such a deep love.

609.

Here, yet another
anniversary creeps for-
-ward on shifting feet.

608.

And the reach of a
seduction could rip apart
the closest of ties.

607.

But what sense does the
heart have when lost in the haze
of a buoyant hope?

606.

I have loved you more
than is reasonable, all
things given, equal.

605.

The slow pull of hands
coaxing me toward the bed,
holds such sweet promise.

604.

The viciousness of
winter storms right before spring
begins, just a taunt.

603.

I wonder if those
same words that snared me do your
other conquests too.

602.

Their love some disease
that deadens the heart before
made sacrificial.

601.

An algebraic
equation of limbs and veins
that no one can solve.

600.

I am trapped inside
by what is impossible
to change: head, heart, soul.

599.

If our bodies are
always regenerating,
shouldn't love change too?

598.

The very thought of
this moment being all there
is, paralyzes.

597.

The world will keep on
expanding until one day
it must eat itself.

596.

I want to hurt you,
gently and vicious, in all
the very best ways.

595.

Voices fought for, not
given, should not sit still in
silence when needed.

594.

Caricatures of
romance will flame bright tonight
and die by morning.

593.

The glow, suffused through
skin in giving, offers up
a soul's submission.

592.

The lantern eyes of
a nation's continuance
hold his memory.

591.

The sinuous grace
of her body flying through
the air is beauty.

590.

The sky is lit up
with over a million hopes
and stabbed, falling dreams.

589.

Love's proverbial
team fat kid, always picked last
except by led dicks.

588.

Never the chosen,
always intermediate,
and then traded in.

587.

I simply can't seem
to escape the overhang
of the gullible.

586.

The fragile under-
belly of the realist's heart,
whored out asunder.

585.

Avarice weighs its
costs against the soul of its
brutal, spent users.

584.

The slow deaths wrought from
selling yourself, inch by inch,
for a small barter.

583.

What envy I have
for the easy judgments of
those who never fought.

582.

A fleeting shadows
determination on life's
Aida cycles.

581.

What freedom can there
be when it requires an
announcement to know?

580.

Of course, the womb was
long lost to fire and dust
by then, time eclipsed.

579.

Unearthed from that womb
twenty-four years too early.
Inside wallflower.

578.

I imagine some-
times that drugs were my murmured
and slow heart's cocoon.

577.

Closing in on ten
years of sobriety, with
a heavy world on.

576.

A staggered result
of love's exploration, cast
in the key of fuck.

575.

Time cycles ever
on in the slowest escape
from life's albatross.

574.

Ten years since our eyes
carefully did not meet in
that desolate room.

573.

His "love" an anchor,
given only to make sure
I could never leave.

572.

Time passes in such
surrealistic splendor,
warping memory.

571.

The years stack up in
a mirror, highlighting this
vision repeated.

570.

We speak through our screens,
each letter an emotion
echoing backward.

569.

The cacophony,
muted in her arms, still turns
me round in circles.

568.

What disease of the
bones makes my limbs bend into
this caricature?

567.

I think of the way
his lips fold lies and my mouth
returns in hunger.

566.

What is it to be
reduced to idolatry
and a dream's soundbite?

565.

The sky is cast in
canopy, holding up the
world's weary vision.

564.

Illumination,
unearthed through the weight's blueprint
of heart's location.

563.

Falling snow calls forth
the hour before dawn in
a silent, slow death.

562.

Today seems built in
foreshadowing. Full of ghosts
hanging in corners.

561.

Moratoriums
and dissections, your heart grows
tired exploring.

560.

Other times, offer:
crack open my ribs and take
your empty echoes.

559.

Sometimes I want to
crawl inside your brain and eat
all that ties to me.

558.

That downturn of lips
begs nothing more than to be
bitten off and chewed.

557.

There is an air of
resolute anguish hung as
normal in the world.

556.

His words mime a need,
desperate for its quiet,
out to me in morse.

555.

The hush of opaque
features paint the days yearning
for ephemera.

554.

The dereliction
of cities. Reclaimed by force
to its origins.

553.

What agony this
body is coated in from
muscle's stretch and pull.

552.

His first words were set
in condemnation. What hurt
love's salvos can make.

551.

There is a hollow
ache inside my ribs, holding
up your missing frame.

550.

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