This time of year
Brings a chill
Which chances fate
Growing colder
Like the days gone dark
Even faster
And that threat
Of perpetual night

With our memories
Rattled again
By each failing sun
Become frigid
Behind empty clouds
Almost shapeless
Until desperate eyes
Slowly stare

At what sky
Bears monstrous forms
Soon resembling pain
Still existing
High above those trees
Dimly glowing
Holding snowflakes
Hiding such fears

Now lit once more
Over gifts
Through glittering orbs
Feigning meaning
While appearing bright
Almost always
To distract from lies
Underneath

Where death sells life
Feeling tied
Around ribbons torn
Being opened
Between branches hot
Catching fire
Getting so damn burnt
Every time

If unwrapping bows
Keeping knots
Losing random truths
Never spoken
Turning teardrops
Into these holidays
Most probably wrong
Though we try.

• J. Pigno