False Prophet
Oh dear! It’s December - time again to look into my crystal ball.
A ball of thoughts in front of me that I don’t need at all,
for I can see the images portrayed from other years,
where different circles feel the touch of agony and tears.
The focus and the buildup always comes across the same.
We’ve indoctrinated to our culture; that Russian roulette game;
not with one bullet in the gun, but alcohol and cars or shame
to spoil the festive season when commemorating the Lord’s name.
From that party’s endless pouring where limits have no end.
Who pays the price of conscience when someone has to send
the messenger to bring the tears that flow from they close by
who live Christmas as another day, with the question echoed - why?
I hear on the dates, the ninth, thirteenth, fifteenth or twenty-first;
the closer to our Christmas Day the more it seems the worst.
A shattered family claims a body. Gifts are silently held dear,
and Christmas Day is over before the twenty-fifth is here.
And there’s the shame of letting out what has been a lustful thought,
loosened by a carefree attitude the Christmas orgy bought.
One misdemeanor iced with lust brings on magnitudes so great,
where children, yes the children have their Christmas filled with hate.
Family’s who have lost touch; not through distance from afar,
believe that Christmas is the time to heal the feuding scar.
Curt are greetings for the foe, for so long kept apart,
and soon the flame of alcohol awakes a murderous heart.
Through close knit societies, away from your very own,
a fragile crack can open; the time of peace and love is blown.
This may not happen close to you where the path is smooth and clear;
Christmas comes and goes in perfect time. This is your lucky year.
Come January just look back. Ponder what you’ve heard and read.
Piece together one by one, the living, left and dead.
I know like me you will be touched with every role that we recall.
It’s the lead up to each Christmas - I am no prophet after all.
Copyright © Lindsay Laurie | Year Posted 2020
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