A Hallows Christmas

They will be singing amass,
Hark! The Herald Angels –
reaping trees from the land
and adorning the corpses
in christened plastic.

I was never fond of finding
the Holy Spirit lingering in
my corridors, as we only
speak on nights like these.

We talk of Saint Nicholas,
one who could comprehend
the presence of good over
presents of evil.

We talk of unlit fires and
questioning glances from
across the icy tundra of an
Earth long asleep.

All of those creatures must feel
so cold,’ I muse,
and It replies,
That’s why they sleep it through.’

Long lost on a holiday pay
or urgency to be merry,
we soothe it in brandy mixed
with ginger and a twist of
cranberry – for spirit.

It always irks me to repeat
the lesson come morning.
For no one can ever hear
me over the sounds of
bells and whistles.

The sound of our newfound
Merry, she speaks of all
we’ve lost along the way,
the neglect of Christmas,
this unholy Holiday.

– B.

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