Here I sit, content to watch.
A silent witness to the death of another year.
The dance goes on, the dancers proceeding in pairs.
Yet again I have been missed,
And left alone to my own devices.
No more skilled in their operations
Perhaps a little less so.
My pen is out of practice,
my mind a rusty tool.
My soul, so young, should not yet tire of its labours.
But "should" does not, can not hold sway upon reality
And the reality is I am tired.