New Year

Existence is a tingle, an itch,

a silly, persistence cacophony.

Too often, life is but waiting for itself,

reeking of recursive regret,

the lonely eying 'if only' in jealous frozen fury.

*****

I'm standing mid December

on a breeze blown bitter Sunday,

contemplating New Year,

with a gimpy psyche broken.

*****

Sweet sweat of horror

creeps needles up my spine.

Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas,

drifting snow cold through my mind.

*****

Sweet twist of sadness

falls forlorn down my back.

Happy Holidays, Season's Greetings,

as life shoots up the dropper's neck.

*****

Auld Lang Syne is everywhere muddled,

toward resolutions torn asunder,

as Chinese New Year looms to catch them,

a safety net through January

until the dragons dance.

*****

And after all the promises

melt into March,

she's still softly sour

but not bittersweet,

caught in a storm

of nerve ends dying

caught in that place twixt

self loathing and writhing

in the New Year.