Lampposts’ shine makes Christmas snow like sateen.
Arcane empty roads intersect with red light’s sheen.
Soft voices form wistful feelings of red and green.
The silver screen wishes to show this lovely scene.
Clocks beg for their hands to stop moving, stars forbid,
Hopes bleed out as fourteen purges them from each kid.
Regret boils up, it cannot be stopped by a lid,
Internally it’s cold, yet what’s really there, hid.
Starting tomorrow, days will have lists that forbid,
These past twenty four were fun, this time cannot be bid.
Many eyes open wide, the sun’s light makes its send,
Auburn leaves are drowned with snow and frowns will not bend.
Some days I wish Christmas would help answer, not end.