Time comes and goes
The years burst upon us with the hope of unrealized potential
And then fade away just like every year before it.
In like the weather, and out like the seasons
Ever marching forward yet we longingly look back and reminisce
Not necessarily thinking of the bad in specifics
The wounds of last year still too fresh, too tender
We think only of the good, that was, the good to come.
Why think of the possible torment
The possible panic, grief, and agony that might ensue
For to dwell upon the pain
The misery felt by millions, most likely billions,
This weight is too much for any one to carry
Brandoyd! 