Based on a twisted dream.


Knowing Death at Christmas

I remember it all quite well.
Father left the table when the bell
Toiled in the night air,
A cry in the foyer's lair.

Beyond our sturdy wooden door,
Stood a man with eyes on our stone floor.
Tainted lips pinned in a smug smile,
Acted as a friend not seen in a long while.

In the kitchen we heard nothing,
Not a word of objection or greeting.
All five of us crept to father's side,
Every set of eyes soon became wide.

So oddly dressed was he,
Our senses could not conceive,
Blindsided by a mass of purple,
And even a tinge of tangerine.

Slowly his gaze drifted,
And six pale faces were reflected
In two enormous black pools.
Oh, we looked like fools.

Words pressed on our lips,
But we did not let them slip.
His smile twisted into a sneer,
Inside he crept and now he was near.

Hands emerged from his purple trench coat,
To remove the tangerine scarf about his throat.
He bowed his head, as if in prayer,
And yes, we continued to stare.

Finally he spoke with mild delight,
His voice a bell in the night,
"Hello my ladies and fair gents,
My time will be well spent."

He tipped his purple top hat,
Then swayed this way and that.
"I am your Father's death,
Coming to collect his debt.

Wine me and dine me,
Even get to know me.
His time is not set,
At least not quite yet.

Perhaps all of you,
Even you child, can prove
That this man of age
Has more than a year to wage

So go on now, fix me a plate
I intend to enjoy this state
And a double extended stay
So let us all come this way."

He took a step to the right,
And then scurried past.
To the kitchen he went,
Leaving us all...emotionally spent.


















Poetry by Whitney Lee
Read 271 times
Written on 2009-01-23 at 17:23

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