We came to dismantle the quiet crucifixion
of lights upon trees in snow covered villages.
The nights are getting shorter and my sleep,
well it wanders, into dreams that I consider
a reflection of my life.
I hear her as she is sleeping, her irises tracing
distant orbits under soft skin of eyelids.
I’ve had enough of violence; I think I am getting
too old to fight away the demons that
sit upon my shoulders.
You’ve been charmed with the gift to subdue my
old voice, the wit and the quips to reveal my true faults
and on top of this, this Christmas you made
me feel as though, despite all my past,
I need no voice at all.