Mistletoe

The silence of that Yuletide

Lies sick in me. Poison-numb

From mistletoe is my pride

For I have let my sullen tongue

Swallow the darkness

And add to the starkness;

My love’s love’s love has died.


I would not reach, so could not touch

The stifled soul who lay in pain

And though it need not cost me much

Did nothing give, did nothing gain,

Would not the gelling silence stir

That lay with him and me and her

But let cold kisses stay as such.


I might have been a truer friend

I might have been a bridge to cross

I should have been a thread to mend

A garment tearing into dross

But I would not relate

And so could not create

But only helped to end.


B.T. Murtagh

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~ by B.T. Murtagh on December 19, 2008.

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