Comes the holiday whose name i avoid,
with its fake lights
shining with social injustice
and its hollow bells
ringing of consumerism.
Sickly sweet music plays on the streets
Some war rages far away as always
The golden trumpet blowing angels are so tired
And the Santas drown in a sticky sea of coke
I turn my face and retreat
and wish in some forgotten corner of my heart
that the festive season
was real
I send a rare message to a friend
just to check in.
And then the child returns home
just because he wants to.
And another old friend, long ignored,
calls anyway.
And on some thin and fragile plane
almost invisible under the
frantic wallpaper of business
the true spirit whispers
I'm alive