1383.

Always chasing down
some sound that never allows
itself to be held.

1382.

My ribs are filled with
empty rooms that just reverb
back this heart's echoes.

1381.

Love is always a
rough commodity to make
for trades. Just makes loss.

1380.

Fables and all their
charm just create illusions
for (k)nights to conquer.

1379.

Cobbled together
wishes make a purpose, but
not a driving need.

1378.

Sometimes I think that
hearts were just built as engines.
Parts but not a whole.

1377.

A small window on
the finite nature of life.
It blooms and then dies.

1376.

The ground is covered
in petals and stalks. Fragile
beauty in progress.

1375.

The night draws too long
on the previous day's hold.
An inverted will.

1374.

A day cast to flags,
fireworks, and food. This is
such America.

1373.

The stifling movement
of the world's built friction let
out to play today.

1372.

Oh sweet internet,
letting us troglodytes out
to play at human.

1371.

Finger paints mar the
cusp of beauty in divine
parts ineptitude.

1370.

The world as run by
its predators. Always out
hunting destruction.