It’s just a year.

A measurement of time.

All too soon run out.

It’s just a year.

Yet somehow a physical representation.

Like a Psychopomp.

It’s just a year.

Leading away to the hereafter.

Leaving us in bittersweet tears.

It’s just a year.

A paper implement.

Meant for keeping track of days ahead and past.

It’s just a year.

A Calendar.

2011.

It’s just a year.

I’ll spit on you.

I’ll tear you pieces.

What you have taken

Can never, ever be replaced.

I’ll set you afire.

Curse your memory to the ends of it all.

I’ll burn your pages one at a time.

Take delight in the ending of you.

For what you have taken.

It’s just a year.

The burning year.

Midnight, it is done.

K.J.K.  11-30-2011

To my Father: Raymond Keyser. I miss you every day, Dad.