New Year in Old Times

Some years seem like death come slow,
A lovely bleeding anoints the grass,
The litany of woes that times bestow,
Each year feels dimmer than the last.
Though in pain lovely selves do grow,
All pray the coming year will surpass,
In sweet solaces.

In the mirth of December's eventide,
Are fragile crusty painted faces,
In prayer or drink, the year has died,
Bittersweet the cheers and embraces,
As the merriment's fateful subside,
All remain with the gifts and graces,
Of lonely places.

The Year's new hope waxes eloquent,
Sweetly the heart — full of resolve,
Soon the coals now burning ardent,
Cool as our lofty goals dissolve,
Hapless in fashioning an atonement,
Shadows of utopias again devolve,
To cadaverous cadences.

Some years seem like death come slow,
Yet grass grows through the fissures,
Regardless what the times may bestow,
There is love and healing that endures,
Though no shortage of pain nor of woe —
Will come a day of justice and closures,
And secure embraces.