Tinsel still a ‘twinkling,
upon our trodden floors,
there’s a certain knocking,
at our creaky doors,
wispy voice, does utter
“I’m weakened by thee”
lament from the gutter,
to make us feel guilty,
their faces are familiar,
as we truly look,
our own are so similar,
under all the muck,
after such inspections,
we can clearly tell,
they are us, dejections,
from our made hell,
crying from the future,
we can hear ourselves,
such sorrowful nurture,
that ignorance compels,
bomb like cheer, thunders,
from our proud disgust,
as life is written blunders,
our human choice, to rust,
but, these are just shades,
of what might be,
thus, authors of such fates,
may be history,
blood pressures may be high,
and moods may be low,
we still have to really try,
to make our happy grow,
in giving such a chance,
for our change to bloom,
together we can dance,
in a spacious room,
proud chevrons, rest at ease,
creased suits, you can retire,
for such a party, is no squeeze,
don’t even need a fire,
as in giving such a place,
where everyone is home,
is surely now the case,
that we should all atone,
thus, spirits on our doorsteps,
we do hear your call,
not to follow footsteps,
that will make such a fall.