And, here's another one of my first letter of every line poems...
Wiser left a lot, and leaving this year so soon,
I wait for the new era, of fifty two weeks, of hopeful boon,
Silently mournful, of all the events that have led to memories,
Having all those sorrowful times of detoured destinies,
Yet there were priceless moments too, impalpable in worth,
Often condoned, for I failed to see joy, in bright old days and evening swarth,
Unthanked, they though lingered, balancing the gloom, with as much glee,
And I now on this last day, all facile lessons, can so limpidly see,
Verily experienced, than a self an year younger, ready for future's freight,
Every year, the same thoughts exist, yet the difference, felt in their weight,
Return will I to the beginning again, to a new page for all the days, waiting for their ends,
Year later one, compiled, to form a new chapter, of the book of life God sends,
Hastier than time itself, this waiting patience, now bearing much thinner than brim,
As I assume there's no more to this year, waiting till midnight, another perfunctory whim,
Purely trying to be obdurate, for the last few seconds, being the unreal king,
Painting the canvas left, with water, searching to fill the space, left nowhere within,
Yawning to the lullaby of quietus, felt surreal, just not heard, to sleep,
Now this gets rare, as tomorrow when I wake, I will get a new year to keep,
Envious I will cease to be, of all others, as all will become at par in time,
Where the hourglass will have been flipped, waiting for the sands to chime,
Years later will I I ponder, the same way write and think?
Each year passes, so, will the next too, like each those petaled water, in a restless blink?
And the answer unrevealed now, will inexorably await me after next fall,
Referring to this day of past, when I was wishing, a Happy New Year to all.
Wiser left a lot, and leaving this year so soon,
I wait for the new era, of fifty two weeks, of hopeful boon,
Silently mournful, of all the events that have led to memories,
Having all those sorrowful times of detoured destinies,
Yet there were priceless moments too, impalpable in worth,
Often condoned, for I failed to see joy, in bright old days and evening swarth,
Unthanked, they though lingered, balancing the gloom, with as much glee,
And I now on this last day, all facile lessons, can so limpidly see,
Verily experienced, than a self an year younger, ready for future's freight,
Every year, the same thoughts exist, yet the difference, felt in their weight,
Return will I to the beginning again, to a new page for all the days, waiting for their ends,
Year later one, compiled, to form a new chapter, of the book of life God sends,
Hastier than time itself, this waiting patience, now bearing much thinner than brim,
As I assume there's no more to this year, waiting till midnight, another perfunctory whim,
Purely trying to be obdurate, for the last few seconds, being the unreal king,
Painting the canvas left, with water, searching to fill the space, left nowhere within,
Yawning to the lullaby of quietus, felt surreal, just not heard, to sleep,
Now this gets rare, as tomorrow when I wake, I will get a new year to keep,
Envious I will cease to be, of all others, as all will become at par in time,
Where the hourglass will have been flipped, waiting for the sands to chime,
Years later will I I ponder, the same way write and think?
Each year passes, so, will the next too, like each those petaled water, in a restless blink?
And the answer unrevealed now, will inexorably await me after next fall,
Referring to this day of past, when I was wishing, a Happy New Year to all.
