auld lang syne
By John Moore •
Nighttime
sippin cigarettes
inhaling wine
as the gentle slope of the road
diminishes to a line
here in the night
amidst the crispness cold
Morning
I roll out of bed
make myself
the day turns to dread
for fear of auld lang syne
the trees with arboreal might
whisper careful commentaries
through carbon capillaries
swirling in the night
dark, gentle emissaries
abiding revolutionaries
stand, but never fight
With cold sweat
I drip out of bed
toes
drip drop
a shin
trickle trackle
the weight of a leg
tick tock
sitting up now
scritch scratch
fending off friends
tip tap
spilling ink
click clack
before I fall into the waking world
I cling to mary jane
and try to forget the pain
of auld lang syne