To What Hides 'Round the Corner

From the sullen ground has risen many foul mists, but none have caught the New Year moon.
Its complexion, overfull of cocoa butter
till the case drips in solitary seams.

As nothing has reached that moon, but the howl of the wolves in the mountain,
let’s set our dreams also upon it.
That which we resolve to do,
that which we resolve to feel,
let us aim those arrows into its craters.

And just how the heavens imitate our cry,
that we have perpetuated in the solace of a bed of tears,
by the neon markings that seep through the night,
I know that each tear was counted and amassed in its own constellation.

This next year, our regrets are already encased in a map of astronomy.
New regrets await us in the further birth of stellar orbits
listened to as cable static sourced from the sound of the growing universe.

But happiness still. I'm sure happiness still
awaits us.
At our windowsills, a light crawls like a lady bug up the misty pane.
And it's a new year, a new rising of the sun.