522.

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

521.

A low bank of clouds
hang over this house, steady
foreshadowing here.

520.

Left to animals
treated so much better than
so many people.

519.

A failing of the
body that should touch each of
our fragile soul's heart.

518.

What is memory
but a disease of senses,
taunting body's loss?

517.

And so youth slips from
us, just as we finally
learn to decipher.

516.

The gentle kiss of
a chilled morning sky lures me
to a fool's parade.

515.

What is this world? So
suffused with hopelessness and
lonely surrender.

514.

She was beautiful,
all full lips and tender eyes
pleading for escape.

513.

The odd shift of an
atrocity turned into
family, food, and thanks.

512.

She speaks softly, barbs
daggering cynicism
into blind minions.

511.

And so, with wary
hand extended, the circle
jerk finds completion.

510.

Dress me in your words
so I can press their meaning
deep into this skin.

509.

The armies of train-
yards march forever on in
a desperate parade.