In the hushed caramel of dusk,
a face puckered and pale
against the ice cold pane
watched the children,
cheeks flushed, rose-pink lips,
dance ungainly and free
amongst the tinsel spread about
and ’round the glowing tree,
for one petite minute:
he did not feel his fingers,
– blistered – bloodied –
held fast against his chest,
he did not suffer
the grumble of killing hunger
that juddered
his skeletal frame,
he stood unmoving
‘til the lights went out.
Shoulders bowed
under the load of his pain,
he slid into the snow,
he did not notice the new day,
sense the children rousing,
their joy a hymn washing
through the house,
he did not see the door open
releasing a rush of warmth
spilling over the porch
and into the street,
he did not hear the family,
their cries of varied pitch
as they assembled around,
he did not feel the tiny hand
reaching out to pluck away the
tears frozen upon his face.
Chronicles of Illusions 