Every year at Christmas time in the room by the door
Stood a tree that reached from ceiling to floor
With neon colored lights and presents and joy
Though that room meant more then the presents and toys
The room where our tree stood fluorescent  and bright
That filled up my winters with joyful new light
But this year is different that room that I love
The one with the tree light looming above
Belongs to someone who loves it less than I
Who's tree lights are white and pine needles dry
They don't have the memories that my family shared
back when they actually pretended to care
Then dad moved elsewhere and mom wanted the same
So the room became filled with boxes of blame
Then we took those lights and threw them away
Downsizing she called it to try and make it okay
Then we moved here, though I thought she was bluffing
See that room meant Christmas and this room means nothing.