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.

1867.

Here, our bodies curved
into the hollows of each
other, is soft love.

1866.

A meeting of hope,
when our hearts seek to meet their
match across distance.

1865.

Thanksgiving, the tool
by which appreciation
should be extended.

1864.

How very little
you know is obvious by
how loud you tell it.

1863.

The burst of color
bleeds from my eyes in slow
drawn kaleidoscopes.

1862.

The unrelenting
visual emotions in
the sky today, storms.

1861.

Your image is the
flower pressed in homage of
hope between my bones.