Weepy eyes,
Woeful minds.
Mornings colder than the ghost of Christmas past.
An empty stocking hangs by the fire place,
In a home with broken hearts.

Picture frames adorn the walls,
With borders made of cracked wood and Holly leaf splinters.
Step outside,
Look up at the stars and wave to the night sky, watch the sorrowful snow fall in the brutalist of winters. 

Lay down in bed for an hour or two,
But not for too long or the bed bugs will keep you.
Try to make the mirror smile,
and the bells around your neck jingle.
You'll set their place at the table anyway,
And listen out for the familiar sound of a whisky tinged giggle.

Pour some alcohol on the pudding and turn out the lights,
So that it matches their eyes.
Reminisce the times when they would still roar and sparkle as you danced under the moons shine.

Gift the gravestone in red roses
And wrap it in green mistletoe,
If you feel a gentle kiss,
Call it a Christmas miracle.