...

Whistling through the very end of a goodbye

Welling tears brimming over in the grapple of hello

Wishing against what you know

Walking past what you are

Wanting what was always unaccountably yours

Would that you can, shall, do, make, move

Worrying the truth

Wandering the present

Wasted till the glancing blow of an opportune moment

Wistful sifting of two-cent recollections, scanning for the glint of recoverable opportunity

Wicked scrivenings madly tossed off as a blue-line of unbroken, unpretentious stream-of-consciousness ephithets

Winnowed generosity tapped for an undisclosed purpose; its ultimate utility in doubt

Weaving still

Walls of recriminations; impenetrable, bypassed by the imaginings of the rabbit hole, the mouse's lair, the smallest of keys

Worth incanted upon a yearning for the knowledge of a true believer

Well. I.

Why. Don't know.

Who. The purpose of.

When. This trial of life.

What. Is supposed to bring me.

*whistle*