The Old New Year Poem by Chris Noir

As time drags on, it's hard to keep
track of things that happen by,
Whether awake or fast asleep,
Whenever did I laugh or cry?

The mills grind on, away away,
No matter if I walk or ride.
No matter if I leave or stay,
The mill will turn, the mill will grind.

As time treads on in army boots,
I long for what I've had and lost,
As time brings rot and brings new fruits,
I fondly gaze at winters frost.

Countless years have faded, died,
And it's only twenty-eighteen,
Millions more come marching by,
In times timeless war machine.

And as time goes on, to shade, to dust,
Every year since was the same,
Full of Joy, of hate, of lust,
And some good old-fashioned fame.

The mills still grind, around, around,
and another day will fade, will fly,
Another decade without a sound,
Will perish and so will the Mind.

So this year as any other,
Will die away to ne'er be seen.
Soon succeeded by another,
That's the year twenty-eighteen.