Watching the Witching Hour

I watch the death throes of a diseased and despondent year. I watch it die in pain and wonder if I should smile. I wonder if it is dying from the pangs of painful labour, or is it a major bout of diarrhea.

I await to see with little hope, watching with eyes overgrown with cynicism. If in its dying push, would it birth a beautiful baby, or fart into existence, a little piece of shit.