The Ghost of Christmas Past

A barefoot messenger of bad news braves 
the cold winter cobbles, 
The archangel brings not tidings of great joy, but misery. 
My shoulders, not yours,
bearing the weight of bad news and blame. 

For there, not white snowflakes falling on the carpet, 
but crushed china memories, ruined by selfish hate.

Old Father Time had I brought in from the cold, 
to share the warmth of our hearth in festivity, 
in union, in love and the spirit of togetherness. 
And yet, such a metaphor;
Your fucking fist fragments our family. 
The frost that jeweled the ground, burnt at my naked toes. 
Yet nothing was it compared to your frozen, hateful heart. 
How many more years has Old Father Time
to spend his festivities with the eons he begat. 
And you ruined it. 
Two turtle doves lay smashed.