Wednesday 30 December 2015

The Cold

I've set out the hay
In the shit-filled cave inside
But there's no sign of a comet or
Falling star coming
To obliterate the dark.

They call holidays an option for a reason...

It's cold.
A house in schism.
They're only taking women and children in the shelters.
There's a warm glow on the hearth,
And tears running down cheeks
Songs, jingle bells.
A flush on cheeks, warm greetings
And raised voices
Everything is red and green.
Envy and greed
And hope deferred.
I wanted...

My stomach twists and I have
Trouble breathing
This year has got to be different.
You come home and then you go home.
Are these birth pains or some game of throes
Shaking life withdrawal-like,
Another year dies homeless body on ice.

The red ribbon marks our sacred wounds, knots inside
The evergreen sucks life but it's done and gone.
An advent waiting for it all to be over.

Lights stretch a constellation along
The gossiping eaves of each house
Where the ghosts of Christmases past
Remind us of abuse, embarrassment, dashed hopes, and
The tinsel bite of arguments
Passed along like old fruitcake.

The commercial promises--vanity,
Holidays are about family,
Oh how I love thee, let me keep the
For Christ's sake,
Count the divorces.
Comfort and joy,

Not for us on the outside.