1860th.

The brilliance of fields,
gently turned and beautiful,
feel like so much hope.

1859th.

The entire world
passes in solitary
blinks. Always lonely.

1858.

Here, between empty
faces, a warning transmits
like a lullaby.

1857.

Stuck in the morass
of emotion's quagmire, left
to a slow drowning.

1856.

Only voodoo can
do justice to the union
of all held within.

1855.

Characterized by
the dulcet waiting, a hymn,
reverberating.

1854.

And together, like
carnival clowns, we fell down
into its passing.