Like some motherhood farewells
The leafless trees are counting the last bell jingles of the year,
Triggered by all leaving sledges chaperoned by the jolly blue birds,
Stretching their cold, snow-white wings
Against the bleeding and burning out sketching horizon
Their immaculate silhouettes –
Like winter spirits crawling against the almost human,
most semi-nocturnal,
slowly self-rusting, emotional sunset
In this small world we’re always one Christmas away
one missing the missing, without any perennial witness,
or overrated conventional kissing under the mistletoe
alienated by the refreshing abstractions
of recently-posted vintage card greetings
trapped within the white envelopes,
like a captive sun inside the sharp borders of a frozen village,
whose earthly reflections of the soon dying sunrays
are improvising a warm, reddish carpet and re-humming one's childhood carols
making them more about hopefully tiptoeing
in the glorious, glorious darkness to bring back the left.

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