Sixty, fifty-nine, fifty-eight…
The hands of time are inevitably stuttering to midnight, and his mind too stutters through the deserted fields of inspiration and introspection / pondering on a hazy reflection / of quirky thoughts and sprinkled ought’s – gallivanting through his regretful mind with a calendar block’s misty affection.
Beyond the hallow walls of his bedroom enclosure – transpires the Eve to New Years / littered with dozen’s of generic Adams clenched to firework’s for spears / he on the other hand harbouring no memorable recollections of ammunition to strike the midnight dong with, but the discharge of insignificant maybe’s, perhaps’ and tears.
The dim and hazy allure of an aging bulb provided the lighting to his conclusive evening / the bridge between calendar blocks drew near, celebrations grew momentum and his insignificant existence left his searching finger tips numb to celebratory feelings / A toast to nothingness – he wondered, gazing at the luminous midnight crickets reflecting on the cracking stretch marks etched to the ceiling /
Five, four, three…
The world exchanging final glances with twenty-twelve – whilst he realises he never truly set his figurative eyes on its mazy abyss / perhaps a lethargic pout rather than a passionate kiss? Okay.
The debut seconds of this, twenty-thirteen / heralds an inward search for purposeful endeavour for this camouflaged mind / playing – rewind / the dreamy thought tape of the year to come sending trickles of excitement down his overworked spine.
Self-digestion yielding the start to a vast stage to tread his lanky strides upon, reasons to elope with risk / and push the sticky envelope of limit with his jaded fists / this – is where the story of a once insignificant mind continues to manoeuvre through the tractions of millennium frisks / or rather starts? With dilated pupils of optimism for reason,
This is, his, new season.