A Christmas poem and a poem about death. I'm so well balanced. Don't touch me.

Are We Having Fun Yet

A blue-eyed child with ruddy cheeks
Wonders what it's like to die
Secretly, I ask the same . . . no, not I
I ask in jest and beg for lies.
Will death knock, then turn the key
Or seep under the cracks
Will death barge in and break the latch?
At first knock I will tremble
As I silent towards the door;
At second, tear drops on the floor
Rivulets on my cheeks, knees are weak.
On the third knock I will answer
Standing, laughing, spitting
Crawling, weeping, lashing, hitting
Sighing either way.
So I will offer my bravado
And demand it be enough.

Listen Closely

Here and there a weary word
Turns to cross a bridge of death
And then travail at some behest
A helmet made of thrones
In a hallway lit by stone
As kingdoms fade in golden ashes.
Foot-sore hallelujahs
Straggle toward repletion
And until its near completion
We dwell where we destroy.
In fields of fleece and slumber
While keepers nod and number
Sleepers drift and start anew
Patchwork spirits ere the mornin' dew
And frozen comets in fiery hues
Punctuate each turn of phrase
As Hosanna's first prophetic rays
Paint Gloria 'cross the night.