Every year it is the same
In November I begin
To stumble out in search of
A feeling I once had.
I search the mud and dead leaves
For something colourful and
Warm and bright and sweet enough
To get me through the dark days.
For a message in the lights
For the song behind the song
I give until I feel good
But it every year eludes.
So it is one mad, cold day
That I search, frantic, through the trash
Of Decembers I have known
For a Christmas I can feel
And feel, instead, a hand placed
On the shoulder of my heart
And it breaks, and is remade
By the person Christmas is.
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