Auld Lang Syne

Let's play along and say tonight is when
The year will end. It's arbitrary, isn't it?
The days had started getting longer something
Like ten days ago. The weather's cold. No
Plants are growing. Nothing singles out this
Night, except our urge to finish off another
Circuit of the earth, its episodes of mundane
Violence, natural disasters, wanton greed,
And gnawing poverty. We'll get dead drunk,
And call it done, and hope for better with
The dawn, however frigid it may be, aware
That we'll be disappointed. Every year turns
Out the same, and, twelve months hence,
We'll be relieved to send the next away.




Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 25 times
Written on 2021-12-31 at 23:57

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