Illusion
I try to walk this path of time with joy,
To try to be the son of morning near.
With wish and tear, they call, I come as Troy.
To Greeks I go at daggers point to bier.
Then now the time is here, I try to care.
Ambrosia flows with talk and wine to swine.
Through gift comes grief and thought of pride to bear.
Now done, the deed; the human delight, with tine.
As sting of slight blurs mind and hand to sleep,
They go while waking indecision breathes.
Then off with plunderous plight, a downward steep.
Once home reality breaks dawn with heaves.
The thought of Christmas past leaves taste of brine,
On palates young and old until next time.