1804.

My heart is littered
with all the ongoing works
of hope's small trials.

1803.

It is so rare now
to find someone that see the
heart within, running.

1802.

Grief too often seems
a greater amplifier
than its basis, love.

1801.

The magic of a
world that creates brains to start
and stop on command.

1800.

Your edges cut so
softly that your voice is its
own murder. Such lies.

1799.

Hope is coated in
leaves slow turning and all
color lit by fire.

1798.

For me, autumn is
the real season of blooming
and soft renewal.