Old Year’s Eve

Old Years Eve short poem

Photo by Orangeya

The ghosts of winters past plague my mind with a blissful memory
of the first coquettish look and the first breath
of her omniscient essence

The failure of one’s duty by thine own hand
is the blade that cuts the deepest
for the blade was forged, whetted and honed by your hands
To cut your very own flesh, and made with deadly accuracy

The spectre shall haunt you ’til your dying days
with the faint hope of returning to that fateful New Year’s Eve meeting
When it started with that beautiful, tentative look
from behind bright green eyes

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Quinton McMorries

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I'm merely a wanderer, seeking to set roots and call somewhere home, It's rather tiresome to be at the whims of the wind. So, for now at least, DC is home-base for me. Always hoped to one day be a published writer/poet, but I fear this art is a dying one. If I must be one of the last standard-bearers of it, then I would call myself lucky.
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