Another Year, Another Ode

The past has been written

With an unforgiving, blatant ink

That flows like the Nile

Amidst sands of yore

And mounds of several misty yesterdays

That were sometimes happy,

And other times upsetting,

Sometimes remarkable and celebratory,

And other times, uneventfully bleak.

The past has been written 

By a familiar hand 

That holds the pen with a great reverence,

Because it writes the story of a life-

One year at a time,

Taking each word as it flows

And assumes a shape that destiny shall harbor

In her mysterious waters

While she hides the next sentence

Behind ships that have sailed

Into a crimson sunset

That smiles warmly at all who look at it.

The future remains unwritten-

An empty book

That smells of freshness and possibilities,

Of joy and friendship,

Of family and togetherness,

And that fragrant sweetness 

That only emanates from a deep, stark love

That is both visceral and tangible.

Like the gods that we worship,

Taking every shape imaginable, 

And yet being the invisible presence

That defines the existence of this poet-

Not a glaring declaration

But an indelible tattoo of the one name

That makes all the difference.

My future belongs to you, love.