Bag of Bones


I heard the old year leave
noxious, corrupt and crippled
dragging through cold streets
like a brittle bag of bones
with tortuous, decrepit step.

My old words were there
and a facsimile of old me
trapped in rotting burlap
tempting with the heady
scent of perfumed decay.

I resisted the craving to cling.
I let them wander by, blind.
Good riddance to past pasts...
may they molder in perfect putrefaction.
and tomorrow rise up, undead.