Aye, to sleep --
And maybe never wake again;
Ghosts of my children
Run across the snowy field;
I can't hold their hand,
Like in years past;
They hold mine on piss-soaked bed;
What I would give to clean theirs now
But me, the fool, how I could fume;
Alas, I fade to flesh on bone,
A burden of memories to all;
Is that my Master? or just a siren
Calling to eternal home.
No, I won't; I'll settle what I can
With however many breaths are yet given me;
Ghosts of Christmas: let me ride once more
The carriage of goodwill
As bells of hope
Pierce darkness of the soul at dawn.
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