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.