The mirror-ball drops
and the Gregorian calendar
turns another final page,
like a memory that preceded us
... time just slipping away
leaving beheld moments behind
    in the smeared traces
           of yesterday

"why fight what's carved in stone?"
                             ... said a voice
     felt in an ether whisper –
  
a voice hoarse with unspoken words
trying to attach a meaning
to the bellowing  silence heard
strewn across pallid blank pages

"there's a sliver of the moon
        above our heads"
  and visions of grandeur
  bathed in a faint moonlit glow
      dappled with hope