2014
As calibrated on the field, tested to the
mettle - so to speak - the gargantuan
new premise of another year comes home.
Tired stuff, dreary thinking. I walk alone.
-
Carrying this gunnysack in times of war
and peace alike, I am sure of nothing more
than knowing I am fraught. The onus bears
me down; walking, nay traipsing through
these seasonal leaves. I want nothing, and
I doubt for even less. This world, I see.
-
It really wants no more - not years nor
matters nor those personal heads of all
those who would fain speak kindly of
something they themselves have said.
They slobber; and like geeks, they're all
still seeking a mother, or a father, or
some other reliquary they've lost which
would shelter anew their jagged existence.
-
Alas, New Year, I do not want them.
I want none of them, nothing.
I wish them gone.
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