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.