Your handwriting.
The way you walk.
Which songs you sing.

It's all giving you away.
Everything you do shows your hand.
Everything is a self portrait.
Everything is a diary.

A glint of silver,
In thick fog and smoke.
A random spring,
In the driest desert when you need it most.
A fallen tree,
That stops you just before the edge.
A gentle smile,
In your darkest hour.
The hands on your shoulders,
That tell you to get a grip.
The harsh words,
You needed to hear.
The break in the clouds,
As the hurricane hits.
The gust of wind,
Revealing your face to a stranger,
Ripping off your mask,
So that they can see you for who you are.
A gentle nudge,
That leads you to your fate.
A slammed door,
To show you the other way.
The exploding star,
Who in their dying moments brought you light.

Friends are precious,
People who care are priceless.

There's a man that's not so jolly
dressed in blood with strings attached
white fur trim and silver shackles
boots of dreary, dismal black.

Rides a sleigh of bone-white reindeer
whips them just as he is whipped
by the arm of blank-faced sales -
doesn't get one lousy tip.

There's a singing, chanting snow-man
mourning for the melted dead
when the sun shines in the morning:
nothing but the ice they bled.

Candied children seeping chocolate
drowning in the liquid stench
bodies limp with festive wreckage
waiting for the last event.

Woolly ropes of Christmas jumpers
looped and knotted at the throat
round the necks of carol singers
singing till they keel and choke.

Then the sprigs of velvet holly
kick their legs and stamp their feet
dance with but a show-girl's honour
reading cheap lines from a sheet.

And the man who's not so jolly
laughs so kindly for the crowd
underneath his hat he's hurting
the red sky his scarlet shroud.