"Oh, where, oh, where

Can I get my hands on

Some true-cast lametta,

All shiny and bright?

What is it that lies

In the corner of her heart,

That Angel's heart,

A Muse with bells,

Christmas meanings alight?

What is this 'thing'

She calls her art?

Not gold nor silver;

Simplicity foil and paper

Scatters straight to the brain,

My own lost brain,

Muttered, muddled by whatever

This Christmas ornament

Dares to be.

Here I stand-

I am hanging, waiting,

For my lametta to clear,

For the sense to be made,

More than a string of glitter too;

I have all the snowglobes,

And references back,

Where is she who can

Make the lametta appear?

For in tired words,

Poetry is the sole best...

Except when it pertains to lametta."

So she said with her sigh,

Laptop on her knees,

Palpable writing spread out at her feet;

Angel, not monotonous,

Had baffled them all,

When a guy spoke his wisdom

Into her way.

"'Tis lametta," said she, glee,

Writing a poem between scenes,

Man and muse one,

Geography-boy, the other,

She pretended, she portrayed,

Like she'd played with lametta,

Which Tianna,

The wolf, couldn't chew

Over such words,

Couldn't see sense where was none;

So she cradled her head,

Lay back on her bed,

"Go, bring me lametta,

Before I am done."

 

Merry Christmas, Tianna, from Angelx

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