2020

freshly sprung my january morn
from the ash of old-year fireworks
vacant womb—another year is born
tiptoe past the haunts where trouble lurks
all my yesterday pains i must heal
leaving scabs and bandages behind
secret recipes that i conceal
sagely occupy my latent mind

50/50 chances of success
give untaken roads false sophistry
lest i prove me wrong, let me confess
time does not afford such liberty:
reconstructing corpses long past dead
for the reigns of eschatology
fix life's bounds beyond time's retrograde
where none can re-drink his history

20/20 (legally not blind!)
yet i cannot see eternity
to this sole pursuit i am resigned:
finding visual acuity
macular-degeneration tribes
bend the newborn year upon its knees
lest a people perish, i'm the scribe
heed ye, then, my sound hypotheses

© Copyright 2020 January 01
by Clyve A. Bowen♫