Amidst yuletide’s melancholy hue,
A Christmas dirge, bespoke and true.
In waning twilight’s somber grace,
Lies a tale of woe, time can’t erase.
Beneath the boughs, where tapers weep,
In the hush, where shadows creep.
A tapestry of memories unfolds,
A saga of sorrow, untold.
In hearths aglow, a hollow mirth,
Gleams but dimly on the saddened earth.
Echoes of carols, sung askew,
Harmonize with hearts askew.
Frost-kissed panes bear witness cold,
To tales of joy forever untold.
In spectral snow, a sepulcher’s caress,
Bears witness to the heart’s regress.
Baubles hang like tears unshed,
Glimmering reminders, souls have bled.
Cracked ornaments, fractured dreams,
Lamentations in muted streams.
Silent night, bereaved and gray,
Whispers of joy, now far away.
A Dickensian specter, remorseful and sage,
Hovers o’er the festive stage.
Mistletoe dangles, a forlorn crown,
Over spaces where love has drowned.
The feast laid bare, an empty chair,
A vacant space, a vacant stare.
Tidings of comfort, scarce and thin,
Resound through halls of loss within.
A wistful candle, in shadows shivers,
Kindling hope that swiftly withers.
So let the bells toll, a mournful chime,
In this sad symphony of Christmas time.
For in each tear that glistens true,
Lies the tale of a heart, once joyous too.
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