The Ghost of Christmas Past

It came and it went, for every year after year. The tinkering of silver bells, the glossy, shining shells; hanging wreaths and mistletoe, and bakery of cookie smells, and what the Past knows soon becomes Christmas cheer. The ghost itself, lost, as it was in the storm. Lost in the snow, and the hate, and the greed, and the scorn. Were buried themselves in the deepening freight. And so as it looked on the child's shelf with awe, with little white irises held in ghost maw. That hung in the air like a holiday elf, the quivering quaint and lofty frail soul. Then with a flicker of light like the moon in the night, and the switch in the room often fallen on fright, like the sun in the day, and the monsters' noon-height. What wonders await the memories of song, the clownish balloon risen up on the throng. Only the street-angels can carry the sky, the pictures of dreaming, dreaming on high. Simple truths on Christmas make the man wild, Simple lies on the eve of Dawn forsake the child, How old, how old the star of Christmas shines, For all to see, the ageless Christ child whines.