Do you think the year sobs?
As the terminal days come to pass,
As its tears grow frigid upon its clock face,
Dreary icicles upon its cheeks,
A funeral script upon a calendar,
Events of holly and fireplaces,
Does it fear its demise?
Or the unease of inflicting the hell on a new turn of the sun,

Or does it drool in anticipation?
A cackle heard in ticks of time,
The watch hands forming a brass grin,
The hysteria of going out with a bang,
Spectacles of flammable fetish and fireworks,
Keeping its clock face warm with a wintry tango,
A party invite upon the daybook,
Does the year long for death?

Comments
  1. Carol anne says:

    wow! Brilliant! Love this! ❤

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