brittler

i’m picking up the bones
scattered all around
the meat that was this year
consumed in listless crumbs
breads long forgotten
and riches, oh the riches
that would be mine
had not the year wasted them away…
ah but who is to blame
is it the clock?
or myself…
the carcass is long gone
the skeletons stacked
and stored back in their closet
the sheep of the new year
the sacrificial lamb
fresh and clean-smelling
wool over eyes
shall likely be as brittle
as wasted and tired
in three-score and sixty-five days hence.

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