New Years Pace
by MrDaMan
Virgil R. Hall II (Randy)

History is written by whiners and lions of discontent.
Aggressive cowards of utilitarian survival,
dipping their pens in the bloody refuse
of the axes grindstone.

Happy New Year! The old year is DEAD!
The worms are twisting through the bones of yesterday,
warring with the maggots over Adams rib.
Such is the scurry of relative civilization.

Humanity is nothing more than the fruit of time.
Babies ripen and fall from the vine to dread the falling sky.
Inventing clubs, wheels and machinations of fire to cook
tribes of cannibals into a feast of civilization.

It’s all apples and oranges with the occasional mango,
spicing the blend of spiritual flavor. Often drunk upon the
grape of arrogance and spitting seeds into the face of God.
And time is unforgiving… even the wrinkled raisin spoils.

Squishing between the toes and softening the landing of
tomorrow’s children falling from the vine, the fruit of
history. Old fools doddering into time, rotting into the
Earth, fertilizing tomorrow for the New Years Pace.