Sylvie Hill

Happy New Year, thoroughly unMused.

Well, it is the first day of the first month
Of the year two thousand seventeen.
And what became of us in years
We are forgetting with age, so easily.

But we feel our skin wilt, wrinkles wiggle
And the skin sags and jiggles.
And I smile that my form is still there
The one that loved, was flexible and agile.

But rigidity and logic have set in
I feel no desire except for exes:
In midnight thoughts, the handsomest
In daydream reverie, the kindest.

And let us not forget in London: the vilest.

Happy New Year, thoroughly unMused.
If this time my eyeballs rove not
Nor feel any kind of mood…

Be I completely immersed in friends!
Very aware of my social awkwardness!
Prepared for the new challenge!
Wishing with the Good Doctor my good health!

UnMused and present, accounted for with faults!
My issues? Known, line them up against the wall!
Still uninspired by any man not foreign, from abroad.
But unMused, very happily, and patient.

Well, it is the first day of the first month
Of the year two thousand seventeen.
Two books done, that Muse killed off.
Let breed what will my poetry…

Let bleed not my attraction: it’s ceased.
But upon human nature, j’écrit.

Sylvie Hill
January 1, 2017