Retrospective, introspective, so depressive, not elective.
Nightmares of you, so comfortable, dust and rubble, all I have left.
Feel accosted, by the loss of the mirage we saw so often.
Apparition, future Christmas, new years eve, the ghosts still torment me from heaven.
Preach the lesson.
Forced confession: need your presence.
Bit of beef still undigested, mind still prone to be receptive. Sensitive.
Bah humbug! I'm so obnoxious.
Yes I know, but it's subconscious. In my heart, a long dead promise wakes me still with visions monstrous. Name still hung above my office.
What else can I be but cross living in a world of merry Christmas?
Open hearts that once were shut up. No right nor reason, poor enough!
Family speaks to me with love I haven't felt since I was young, so all I have to say's good day, as I put out the coals and fuss.
I don't make merry at Christmas. All my work goes to establishments I'm forced to pay through taxes. Put the poor into the prisons. Can't afford to give what I wish to those who are badly off.
Decreased population surplus.
Sat in mournful meditation, fog-like smoke obscures the egress.
Bells chime for what seems an hour then, dragging chains he comes to visit.
"They come at midnight!" spake the phantom. "Father son and holy spirit."
Hands in pockets, thoughtful habits. No peace. No rest. No reverence.
Humbug. I say you're fictitious.
Charity, mercy, and forbearance are but a drop in the comprehensive ocean of a business ended.