1916.

The dust kisses the
window corners and drapes the
room, a disused shroud.

1915.

The larval remains
of a regurgitated
heart lays twitching here.

1914.

The bruise of winter's
shade reaches out its hungry
fingers. Consuming.

1913.

She speaks softly, barbs
daggering cynicism
into blind minions.

1912.

A beautiful game,
charades and sleights of hands, met
under love's regard.

1911.

A room of hollow
ears and empty hearts, cast in
bare abandonment.

1910.

A silhouette, left
as the only evidence
of what once remained.