The Humbug Spirit of Christmastide

We pretend in dreams
Where fantasy secretes a season
Within a world where no magic is found 
Streamed in the tears of disenchantment 

Snowfalls baring lies 
Ringing bells in the absence 
Of the kinder christ
Playing roles more holier than thou
Instilling hope,

That shatters youth and smile.

Which Christmastide is worth celebrating 

When folktales shared, deceive?

Waking up empty-handed 

Obfuscated in daydreaming 

The racking sight becomes frozen,

A piercing squall drained in the moment,

A gaze so perilous on packaged wants

Unraveling silence through a window.

Distance claims the yard 

And the thoughts on a love 

Denied in lonely arms...

Barren & chilled 

The pilot's clicking

The furnace shrill

The stifled sniffling

The anchored seating

The turning page

The humbug spirit:

The dying flame.

The will, the want,

The yearning, the wishing,

The voiceless void

In the stories ended. 

The face, the space,

The silence shifting

The day that turns

The way that it's leaving

You spend life 

Trapped in your quarters 

Wasting away,

Tucked in your corner 

Mulled in the wine 

Stirring thoughts it had left

Stripped of the spirit 

And the times that were missed

Littered, the past 

Tearing at present, 

Knowing what's inside...

I'm not fucking with the rest of them.

No bow nor string

No garland or ribbon,

The treasured memory: a gift rescinded.

- Bah, Humbug...