Scurrying crowds beat down on the pavements
And screaming children bicker with their frustrated adults,
Strangers to each other in this season of enforced cheer.

Blue-white light strings buzz above the precinct,
A harsh, cruel sneer to the ancient blaze
Of my Christmas star
And the drifting kisses of earthbound snow.

No longer do shepherds hurry to a manger,
Nor do the wise offer prophetic gifts;
But teenagers gather around windows of partywear
And the foolish try to buy their guilty way back into their cheated lover's bed.

The days of Advent are upon me,
But the trappings of the season were introduced
Amidst the summer days.
Straggly tinsel, a box of worries,
An empty pocket, and pairs of princess shoes
Are on the feet of drunken party fairies,
Echoing through the autumn and into the winter nights.

"It's not like it used to be," the elderly grumble,
"These youngsters don't know they're born!"

"You don't remember when you were born,
You Scrooges," is their sniggering reply.

And none think of the precious life
That was delivered into the darkness
Of a stinking stable among the beasts of burden.

Other beasts of burden plod these cemented streets now,
Laden with bags of fripperies
And hats of debt upon their heads.
The only asses are the wealthy who buy off their children
And the poor who mistake love for a loan.

Once,
I flew in the realms of glory
And winged my flight over this earth.
And now,
I sit,
Amongst fake branches
And shining bulbs
And glittering plastic,
Hearing laughter
And drunken shouting
And songs of confused sentiment,
A mask for other,
More ancient festivals long gone,
Whether churched or pagan,
All,
All gone.

The good red-coated saint
Sits in his gingerbread house all covered in polystyrene snow,
And asks what gift the children want,
Regardless of their behaviour,
Or their parents' means.
His face is an advertisement as he drinks his soda,
His sincere heart lost
With his sacrifice of old.

The lights in windows no longer
Speak of John's message,
And my little wooden head
Wonders if, indeed,
The darkness
Might just put the light out.

For though we have eyes to see
And ears to hear,
Christmas is no longer
Redemption Feast,
And Love is reserved for daytime films.
The holiday tree resides in the White House,
And the Christ Child
Lies abused, neglected, and forgotten
In his dirty, stinking stable.

And here I sit,
A little wooden angel,
Striking no holy fear or amazed wonder in anybody,
Save the single child who looks for me to be
Lifted from the ornament box
And clipped to the plastic branches
Of her yearly tree.

And in a few years,
She will lose me forever,
When I fall from grace,
Under the bed,
And get sucked into the unbelieving vaccuum cleaner
And forgotten.

At the end of her life,
She will have a fleeting glimpse
Of a long-hidden memory,
A subtle sight of me.
And she will wonder what happened
To the little wooden angel
Who sat upon her tree
As she sang the carols she did not understand.

She will wonder why Christmases felt lonely
When her spirit leaves this earth.
We, none of us,
Have hope to cling to
When the darkness rolls in
And we focus on what
The Light
Ought to look like,
Rather than what it
Does look like.

We forgot about
Simple,
Clear,
Resounding
Love
When we tried to give it a shape,
And cashed in on it.

We are all
Lost in Christmas.