It is not Christmas eve no more
I wish it was Christmas always
I know I have left something in there
or it has left something in me.
It is not the allure of wrapping papers
or the boxes of anticipation
under the trees.
It is about the anticipation
that could never be boxed.
It is something in the air,
it is like all the
triangles turning to squares.
2
It is a Christmas Eve
and I wish it was Christmas always.
I know these smiles are not deep
but I long to hold on to them,
like a drowning man
who although knows
the floating object he sees above
is not adequate
but he still takes his chance,
who although knows
in the dept of his death
that there is no chance,
but he still grabs on to it
because only death
can sly the last hope,
because
this hope floating and exaggerating
in magnify glass of water and death
is the last chapter
he must finish
to close the book.
