The day before Christmas, hanging by the fireplace, lies our unstuffed stockings
Everyone is rushing down the halls while the clock is tick tocking
Many kids patiently awaiting by the window to watch the reindeer flocking
Bundling up into winter …
She arrived home, leaving her things in her room
Alongside lush sheets sprawled on the queen bed
The chandelier beamed lustrous lights of silver
Onto shelved book spines of golden thread
She stretched briefly and walked to her kitchen
The sun caught in her raven hair
Rays reflecting hellfire on her skin
Draped in rags, her slumber in her cage
Crowned with rusted metal
Queen of my fields,
How I desire you
Painting of angels surround us
Pale skin …
There it goes! The machine that tread.
Labels carelessly placed and its scratches bruised,
with its unfinished polish, its capacity abused.
Its thin foil shreds have undergone many amends,
with once robust members now of awkward joint bends.