Feel the Burns, or Syning Off, For Auld Lang Sakes

flipped over the map,
a ruckus sans reason
for reason’s entrapped,

twain our way not your way
on lost middle ground,
that’s encircled by misgivings
packed in barking suit hounds.

But as chill of this winter’s
talons grip cross this land,
with each sunrise more light enters
where in warmth we might stand,

and we might float past our hopes
where ice-out melts stalemate,
my wish for all coming new year
charting Twenty-one-eight

Here Comes the Sun!