In January my still-beating heart,
Laid slain, a shrine of posies and mirth.
Sallow faced, tallowed with time,
And set upon the sun-soaked earth.
In February my muscles ached,
Tearing slight and ghastly rips,
Pricks of poison trickled down
And fought the fear of found mistakes.
March arrived in all its splendour,
ricocheted against the grain
And bit the barrel, once, no… twice,
rose to writhe in tears again.
May, haughtily wrapped in tinsel and grief,
Feeling washed away the tide,
Shade seemed sentient,
Serendipitously less alive.
June, July, evoked my senses,
I seared my eyes to see the light,
I stood in open raging waters,
unbenowest to the plight
Of the time
I saw myself out of this pastiche
Of paradigms and sordid stone.
August, decrepit, my mind is blank,
My heart has left the littered landscape
My body soldiers on
The honest horror of what’s done,
What it’s nearly escaped.
September had recovered rations,
Reeling portions, politely-prized joy.
I spent my sentiment all on nothing,
Compensated with an ornamented decoy.
October flung me irrevocably wild
Just like an unhinged and transient child,
Shuffled, shifted, shuttered, shirked,
The littlest glance, heartfelt, beguiled.
November granted me clearing skies,
One year later to devise
A plan for life,
A plan for love,
A plan for show,
A plan to budge.
December gifted me peace and calm.
Enduring burns received utmost care and balm
And love remained beneath the blade,
Trivial, troubled, yet trained to fade.
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