What a sweet and sticky recipe. The dying days of another year, finished with a haze of sherry drenched worry and the same old promise to do better in the future, with no more idea, after another twelve stretch, who I am, even less so in so many ways. Lassoed by my own sweet flailing, it’s just the passing of the days, the tuneless, turning tunes of my days of pointless railing.
The daily disasters of the world, other people’s lives, numbed and numbered by my own self concerns. Money to charity no longer eases; it might as well just burn. Uncomfortable and itchy in my own old skin, still nothing pleases and pointlessness my ongoing chant, repeats. It’s that time of year once more my dearest confidante.
Draw closer, like a Winter's tale I tell myself the New Year brings less deranges, changes, damages, favours, saviours, away in a mangers and better behaviours, but I know that I’m flavouring it with too much sweetness. After a well meaning start I’ll be beaten and beating it all over again, such is the way of men. Or this man anyway, with nothing saved or savored .
The cast cat struggles to lift his wings. Mind willing, spirit and will dipped in mire he stares at the moon mewling to cold white fire and remembers when the world was cream, each lap a fall towards a dream. On hard wooden platform stands he, wishing what he wants to be. He stands, and stands, and stands, but still his iron wings can’t fly. His flying days are done unfortunately.