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.