Terebinth and Holly
A rusted flame in a windowsill
A cauldron without a steeple
As the melting pot rejects
The pinnacle of my bigotry.
Ivory towers surround a red meadow
And sunlight turns everything black
There’s no room for ivory here.
No room for that nonsense
For the last 2000 years
Or each 12 minute lifetime
Which travesty is worse?
Tis the season of folly
And behold our poisoned décor
Eat, drink, and be merry indeed
Imbibe this, and tomorrow we die.
A kiss, a reminisce, mistletoe and holly
Tis the season of folly
Or have I said that before?
There once was a tree that was broken and wept
But its aroma healed our sores
I wonder if a striped man could do that for my soul.
An empty cup is overrun
By endless refills of substance
Of which we only fathom the abuse
And use the excess blood
To paint over our doors
To abate our fear of death.
Tis the season of folly.
A cup of wine, a piece of bread
The king of hearts, a vacant stead
The King of kings, a babe instead
Of answers. Instead
of making sense.
But answers are for those who will bolt their doors
When the red spills into the streets
In a frenzied dance of celebration
As redemption draws nigh.
Behold, a Lamb!
