The Christmas tree is vacant of what
make it jolly, bauballs  hang in remanence
                      with tarnished broken gleam.
Disused needles litter the floor,
  careful where you tread take care.  

The cat hangs loosely paper thin flesh
             gaunt from the crimson tinsel
throttled around its physique...

The Turkey on the table a corpse of
                            happier times..

Now a prison of destitute flesh
   like paper unwrote upon..
              But it says everything.

Presents litter the floor wrapped in
regrets.. all open, only the bones of
                   lost promises lay at the bottom.

Christmas time is only 364 days away,
   And this will all be here,

so will we,
                                 no one has found us yet..