They said that it would end this year
like before, before, and before,
spinning, then the thing just stops
and we stand still, no centrifugal
keeps us landed, but the gravity
of situations ends, we will not leave.

They’ve said it other times I’m sure
the year, the month, the day
and we would drink, and laugh
find many ways for people without futures
and fall wasted, not bereft, left strangely calm,
awakened the next morning, still the same.

They said that it would end this year,
in fire, and rain, with floods and pestilence,
but witness every morning the same dawn,
blue sky, the tragic magic of the day,
not today, or tomorrow, nor next month,
though next year, maybe next, perhaps, it ends.

editors note: No end to our countless ends; wanting to be gone to be right. – mh clay