1874.

Emotions crowd for
space on love's faded lawn. So
much weary refuse.

1873.

Long since out of tune,
the thumps of each press transmit
a beat's intention.

1872.

The echo of sound
calling itself a gentle
hued foreshadowing.

1871.

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

1870.

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

1869.

Where this framework of
inching events began to
again feel like love.

1868.

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