Awash with Christmas Spirit

The shattered resilience in vermillion
of a stare
of the glass, shattered and torn
and slashed, smashed, stoned
without effect, stateless, yet
it winked back, and winked back
we looked up, and it looked back
with its green eyes shining.

Saw it, grasped it, hands full
of a lovely Christmas, sans bells
and the smell of Douglas fir.
The rusted, sweet smell of
suicidal holidays, pitiable joys before
empty promises of 10 steps.

Now, hands red as eyes, and
blurred vision painting the soundless
sky, I looked upon and saw her,
removed; she was perhaps now
the glass,
and I was best left to wonder
how quiet the crash had been.

The gold star was gone, left
in its place, a smiling fool.

Would it end, would it end?

I decided to turn the lights off.