The last Christmas tree

The last Christmas tree

Wrapped in shadows
leaning in the corner
no frozen firework
tangles my branches
a washed up angel
snagged on my spire
drips like an old raincoat
soot sprayed inside
the blown bulb of it’s halo
but fire still threads
my skeleton

in the morning
just for a moment
as the Christmas sun
touches my tip
like a sparkler I’m lit
showering the dark
with crackles of light
that cools to needles
the spilt second hands
from my short life
and a handful of sequins
for the shadows
that hold me

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