Here is the month of final chances
To make out something of the year
Looking backwards looking forwards
Where the winter mist holds dear
Tipping out our bags of promises
Burn the logs of sad regrets
For now we walk the burial march
December’s ghostly silhouettes
Prepare yourself for nowhere time
Attend the wake of last year’s loss
Play the music loud for singing with
Pick up the heft of next year’s cross
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