1846.

Each handshake a soft,
whispered secret, passing thoughts
between palm's imprint.

1845.

The entire world
passes in solitary
blinks. Always lonely.

1844.

Her backbone, long used
as ambition's ladder, broke
its spine by bending.

1843.

A thick slate hued sky
overhangs the entire
day in foreshadow.

1842.

Her voice breaks a heart
through token protestations
of what love won't be.

1841.

The dark sings gentle
lullabies into the light
glow, down from the moon.

1840.

Afterwards, I would
swear that innocence had
worn him like mirrors.