High atop the spire, beneath a cloudless sky
the Cross stands forlorn, Christmas is nigh
since long in the past, time beyond recall
no bells chime here, sung no Christmas carol!

But still its heart flutters, as it hears the Lord's voice
I carried your burden and set for you the choice
to do this world much good and love your fellow men
be happy in others' happiness, take share of their pain!

Kind Lord, mutters the Cross, men still live for gain
act the way it seems, your blood was shed in vain
they war and breed hatred, between them raise wall
hanker for pelf and power, in their loss they squall!

The church lies abandoned, starkly white and bare
only the Cross bows, to the Lord in silent prayer
still hoping it's not far away, when the bells would ring
the Lord would carry the Cross again, on his second coming!

"A" has all the men
40 and up
in love with her

"M" is most likely
a nun

"C" is in the CIA,
or the witness protection program
perhaps a quantum physicist

( you all know
the people
who who I'm talking about)

for all the forlorn
lovers,
who've been spurned,
I share the advice
my mom gave me
"you'll find someone else"
and so, please
don't write you are
*******
angry
or sad,
tell me you
want to ****
the son of a...*****
write about something
else...

(...you can never
go wrong
writing a poem
about
***

men,
make all the women
have big *****)

and for the paranoid poets
just because you are
paranoid
it doesn't mean that
people are not
following you, so,
BEWARE

we have a separate life
here
we exist on comments
we live
on the internet,

we:
the psychotic
the lonely,
lovers
and perverts
and dreamers,
some poets
some mystics
some saints,
most of us, tortured souls
trying to find solace
in the words we write,
and to leave a piece of us
and not fade away
like a shooting star
into the nothingness
of thin air