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New Year's Eve - a Rondeau
 
Midnight. Call it another year.
The past must fade now, disappear,
like plumes of winter breath, I guess -
dissipate to nothingness.
All that's real is now and here.

Yet somehow it seems ghosts draw near
on New Year's Eve - the once-held-dear
for just an instant coalesce
at midnight.

What's tangible's a thin veneer
on all that's real and close and clear
and ancient days can grasp, possess
a present heart with loneliness
in the time-fraught brooding atmosphere
of midnight.






By tony parsons

© 2016 tony parsons (All rights reserved)

 

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