The skeleton dances ’round the sun again.
It dances with the sword, the mat, and the pen.
“Happy Birthday” creeps me the fuck out.
Standing loved ones surround me,
my heart resounds with anxiety.
Delusions of immortality fade into doubt.
I look around, it’s too uncomfortable to stare at the smiling people.
They sing off-harmony, they sing off-key.
They sing from the heart, they sing with glee.
“What an archaic tradition,” I mutter to myself.
A great, white ball of fire is before me,
ready to be extinguished,
ready to reveal a singular prophecy.
The loved laugh.
My love is by my side.
“What an archaic tradition,” I mutter. “But I guess it’s not that bad.”
Annual lifetimes have brought change, sorrow, toil, and laughter.
Twenty-seven trips- some were triumphs and some were disasters.
I laugh, I think, and I shed a tear.
“What an archaic tradition,” I mutter.
“But I do hope to do it all again next year.”