There is a sense of dread
like soot from the fireworks
in wobbly descent,
landing on my journal.
I swipe at the mark
and smudge the new page,
once sharply white with dreams
and unblemished with the disappointment of failure.
The new year is presenting itself
like an open book
but my fear...my dread
is that the same words will be penned again.
Progress seems so marginal
excludable
and yet I wonder.
We are only dead if we are stagnant,
so therefore I must have moved,
progressed.
I am alive.
My father is stagnant
dead
and yet his heart
beats another year
into being.
1-1-19
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Thank you for listening.