three hundred and sixty five

you could never see the stars:
they've always been veiled.
forever been reduced to
cryptic symbolism
by the omnipresent smoke
of a million yesterdays
and a single today.
new beginnings?
they've always begun the same.
and those resolutions —
they've shattered
like the crackling sky,
before they've even parted from
trembling lips.
so raise your glass!
to the notion of another
three hundred
sixty
five
wasted days.
just another excuse
to celebrate
slow deaths.