Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house
Not a creature was stirring not even a mouse (this is where Clement Clarke Moore ends and I begin)
No stockings were hung by the chimney with care
Not a chance that Santa would ever come there
Two little brothers
grimy and tattered as could be
Stared trustingly in my eyes
whilst clinging to me
Huddled under a filthy worn sheet
that smelt of mold and bile
Our mother purple and swollen
in a motionless pile
Then…
the dull thumping sound
grunts and wails filled the air
I drew the little ones closer
we had to get out of there
So we ran through the night
across dismal grey slums
Over soulless dingy earth
from which nothing ever comes
Towards nothingness we ran
stopping only when I knew
That we had found nowhere
where no one knew
Then pressed tightly together
we dropped into a heap
I thought about forever
as we three fell asleep.
Title photo by Pixabay
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