1383.

Always chasing down
some sound that never allows
itself to be held.

1382.

My ribs are filled with
empty rooms that just reverb
back this heart's echoes.

1381.

Love is always a
rough commodity to make
for trades. Just makes loss.

1380.

Fables and all their
charm just create illusions
for (k)nights to conquer.

1379.

Cobbled together
wishes make a purpose, but
not a driving need.

1378.

Sometimes I think that
hearts were just built as engines.
Parts but not a whole.

1377.

A small window on
the finite nature of life.
It blooms and then dies.