sat on the balcony last night.
faced the wrong direction,
so no distant lights of the city there.
only darkness obscuring
vision, and the garish red decor turned silhouette.

fingered firecrackers drooping from the ceiling
that don't really pop - cardboard scarlet sticks
that fufill our ideal of reliving
past festive joys that we can't remember
but yet prove to have existed from
proudly exhibited grayscale photos
turned sepia from age and lost their
subtle hues - overt overtones override

and so again I go through the agelong rituals
though I still no reason and yet unseeingly
tradition works its claws on me
falling under its siren song
perhaps next time I'll be the
father with babies on my lap and
convincing them that crimson's
not blood nor horror but will
scare away monsters and
bring good luck for the year.