The calendar hung itself.
it hung itself
weary of the passing months.
in which pieces of itself would be torn away
by those more anxious to see the future.
the clock, the sun, and the moon all apologized for the loss
it shrugged.
As if to say, "I deserve it. My days are numbered."

The calendar hung itself.
Unsure of it's remaining months.
Too many x's to count what's left.
or what should've been.
it hung itself to stop time.
just for a year.