December

There’s a wind that bites on the coldest nights
In the frozen lap of December,
And it leaves its marks of depressing truth
Everywhere that it blows. Remember

All the lonesome old, and the suffering youth
And the desperate cries of a mother
As she scrapes what once had graced her womb
From the street in the wake of another

Downpour of fire; every home’s a tomb
With its epitaph on the faces
Of the drenched who dried everything they had
In the rain, of all the places.

As a village dines on a morsel, glad
For the fact that their meal was bigger,
Don’t forget blood spilled, all of it unwilled
By that tot enticed by a trigger.

But we all rejoice for the time we killed
In our hot pursuit of pleasure,
Just don’t be ashamed of the tears you shed
They might be our only treasure.

(Take it down just a notch for the dead.)

There’s a wind that bites on the coldest nights
In the frozen lap of December,
And it leaves its marks of depressing truth
Everywhere that it blows. Remember.


Happy New Year!

Post Categories: Poetry

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