The Year

How much difference a year can make, If only a few moments of callow indiscretion I could take, Away from a passel of newly forged mistakes, New days are wrought with hopes of a clean slate; From the cobwebs of my mind I rake, Through the rift of whispering comments that resonate, My past and that of my longed for mate's, Whom without a care or folly forged my fate, With but a pernicious word of hate, Forever sealed my hope of love to a blackened crate, Darkened - the windows of my heart closed to the beams of another day; So the ruminations of my mind do grate, On the rocky concept of harmony it can't be safe, For the derision of love it shall forever state, Beneath the wreckage beyond which most contemplate, Until on the dusk of the season it will awake, And yearn for a rebirth another year will create.