Santy comes in clusters;
clover fields of focus infused
with tendrils of marbled lucidity.
Gusts of foibles swirl with normalcy,
entrancing and enchanting and luring

    locks of golden silk within their grasp,
    gripping and slipping on floating clumps
    of what's left of brain matter, spattered
    onto white washed walls of consciousness;

         cleansed.