A Long Night's Journey Into Day

Midnight Mass

The sickening stench of heat;
stuffy, dark and thick,
the frost still penetrates the windows
on Christmas mourning.

If your not here, I will be leaving.
No presents to open,
no tree to trim-
the cats won't know the difference,
like they do when I'm away-
I will go to meet a stranger,
spend the day where it is warmer;
I need that heat much more now
because my soul is thin.

Everyone will miss me...
but I know it is better
to let them see me when its over-
without the hours I might have spent
hiding my swollen eyes
and broken heart.

The heat will rise up
swelling my fingers before I go;
It will be better off...
better than wishing silently,
quietly,
in my head-
that I were dead.
Then worms will bring the presents
to my grave
on Christmas mourning.

I wonder if you'll think,
when I'm not here,
how good it was last year...
when the gifts had been too many,
the room had been too warm
and happiness was a promise
on Christmas.


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Midnight Mass

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