1888.

Can it be any
wonder that people are cruel
with such loneliness?

1887.

Love so often feels
like neglect when memory
is lfet to decay.

1886.

The clouds take on the
characteristics of its
viewer's moodiness.

1885.

Standing on the edge
of choice feels too much like a
lie's sweet seduction.

1884.

A generation
of empty faces and hearts
hides between my bones.

1883.

The conversation
of veins, split and rewound to
the start, is true love.

1882.

The connection of
a soul's grasp reaches across
the ethereal.

1881.

I want to roll my
body amongst the veins of
your bloody, gored heart.

1880.

He keeps mouthing all
the promises I cannot
afford to believe.

1879.

The illusion of
happiness, such a hopeless
narcotic, teasing.

1878.

Divergent choices
lead the heart toward bloodbaths
or sweet nirvana.

1877.

The expanse between
sleep and surreality slides
inside to haunt me.

1876.

I am enthralled by
what nature is offering
up for consumption.

1875.

The sky and sea, such
paired, sad overtures of the
finite ground between.