A Holy Season

 

A Holy Season

.

It is a holy season.

Cruel winds

shrill at the corners

scrub my face raw.

I hear a choir

dying in every gust.

.

It is a holy season.

Ragged chanting

from the perennial faithful

to celebrate birth.

.

It is a holy season.

Merciless children

torment the purses

of betrayed mothers,

extracting promises

like teeth.

.

It is a holy season.

Her head rests

blind

on my shoulder

leaking tears.

Her dead breath

is captured

in my curls.

.

It is a holy season.

I will undress it,

blue-fingered torture

from collar

to spine.

.

It is a holy season.

Licking thin lips

fresh with the taste

of salt and blood.

.

It is a holy season.

The meek

dream of inheritance

while the mighty

steal the shirts

from their backs.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Written during a bitter winter long ago when I lost my heart, my words, and the last tattered remnants of faith – in religion, in politics, in big business. In the time since I wrote this the rich have become far richer all over the world. And much more skilled at lying, cheating, bullying and stealing. Hence Trump.

It has become a ritual for me to post this every year. An antidote to the commercialism and tacky sentimentality that the season swims in.

photograph borrowed from diginoobsi