1797.

Mothers too often
forget to teach children that
lost is maintenance.

1796.

My heart grows rusty
in its withered cage of lost
faith in tomorrows.

1795.

What is the fear of
a palm with no lines to give
some dream of vision?

1794.

I whisper hopes, not
at stars but on air for flight
to always return.

1793.

If only these bones
could be stardust and dark skies'
shards instead of girl's.

1792.

Her hollow insides
are concaved out as hungry
men just keep eating.

1791.

A papier mâché
always too close to fire
to avoid burning.