I don't like December, not really.
Its trappings hang disconcertingly,
In such stark contrast to how we feel.
After all, you can't decorate what's dead.
Little lights alight, blur and bleed for bleary eyes
Because it's so cold I could cry.
Will, did, am.
It's so pretty on the postcard you might forget to pray
For the needles of pain to remind you you're alive,
Though you wonder if the natural numbness
Of lost things, frosting, might not be preferable.
Hollywood lied, you know—
Hell hath no fires, only endless snow.
(Lewis knows.)
I wonder if this is what it's like to grow old.
If it's true, I won't lie-
Truly, I think I'd rather die.
Peppermint grows year round,
And it tastes better in the summer anyway.
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