2070.

A storm that sweeps out
everything but the mess
hiding underneath.

2069.

The desultory
march from birth to death, played out
with each slow season.

2068.

History a set
game bent on its irony.
Mirrors inverted.

2067.

The machine of those
tiny bodies burning with
a heart's full engine.

2066.

Sideways intentions
set to crawling as if they
were meant to be straight.

2065.

Bones were never meant
to be the firmament for
reaching such a high.

2064.

Comfort supplanted
by the constant need for more.
A devouring.