The beginning of a new year,
Looking at a new calendar,
With a picturesque view of the Sri Lankan coast, 
And 31 days of being two-faced,
The hangover face from last year,
And a new year’s face, that applies an anti-septic
To the wounds of the year before, while
Looking inside that bucket,
That is half-full. A list that tells me,
There is the sheer need to live large,
Dreaming away, far into the milky-way,
Hoping that Fatum, like the milkman,
Will deliver the milk to the doorstep.
And you’re waiting inside, with a bowl full
Of corn flakes. And the truth is,
January, is always a battle, the resolve
Of the resolution, that fences
The days and the nights, to transcend,
As you look out, one eye forward and
One eye settled on your yesteryear,
Your nose and mouth, caught in two halves,
In a purgatory, half-here, half there,
Knowing a decisive truth, that we can only move one way
And then February comes, and you
Conquer the other eye, as they both look
Along a long corridor marked in four digits,
Holding on to a resolution, hoping
That it will be all different this time around,
Searching for where the grass is greener,
And yet settling for a bottle of absinthe,
To get drunk to an oblivion.

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