We all say we battle demons
     but the truth is that I don't--
I invite them out for dances
     in the rain and then I soak
and stew and sit in consequence.
The same way every time--
when I swallow easy lies because
     I like the taste of wine
     a little better than the truth

So with calendar companions
     and clock ticks to count my wrongs
I'll just keep on counting seconds,
     hours and days until it stops
unless the seasons take too long
Like they do every time.
I can make no good defense for this
     but can apologize--
but that's no better than the truth.

There's no fight to win, sometimes
just aches to sift through, hits to take
Soaking wet, now, chimes a new year
Ringing bells the old to wake.