Death
Christmas tales are merry and full of jolly and joys,
but today I’ll tell you a story without candy, nor toys!
One that has no happy end in this realm of existence,
But if you don’t mind that, read on ‘til it ends.
Somewhere in Ireland the day before Christmas
1836… the century of nineteen,
There was a young man, no more a boy, but keen
To write what his heart sent to his mind’s address.
Unfortunately the people didn’t seem to like his art.
And critique had always been hard
To digest for an artist’s frail soul
Especially if it was his goal
To gain money with it for his life…
And our poor writer did not sell a verse
He bought his last food (three days ago) by selling his purse
And he needed a wonder (from ol’ Ho Ho Ho) this merciless winter
If he wanted to survive
This terrific coldness, that cut like a splinter
Into his skin under his worn-out, jaded coat
With the pockets full of the poems he wrote.
He wandered through the streets
Snowflakes dancing around him
But he only freezing and tired of treats
He got from the people, they sent him away
Leaving him hungry ant the rim
Of starving on this cold pre-Christmas day.
His feet felt unfeeling
From his heart hope was peeling
Like from a gravestone gold paint
With people’s pity so faint
At his pitiful look.
The fingers frozen, numb, barely able
To hold his scrapbook
His writing unstable
From his aching head
And his burning throat…
°If this misery’s living
I’d rather be dead!°
He thought as he went through unforgiving
Snow to his rundown abode…
But humans are evil, humans aren’t nice!
They tear down your shed
If you can’t pay the price
Of the lawn where the box once stood
Where you had your home, your memories, your bed
And all your worldly good….
And as I said; our guy was a poor one
He was starving, freezing and ill
And when he came home, his home was gone!
It gave him a thrill
When he realized
That on Christmas night
He would sleep on the streets, which all where iced!
And overcoming did fright
Our penniless writer
He’d probably die
If his fate didn’t get brighter!
So he tried to sell poems the rest of the day
Sold nothing but begged all to please let him stay
In their houses, their cellars, anywhere
Just not in the ice cold winter out there!
But no one showed mercy, they all just ignored
The man holding his chest, for his lungs were sore-d
By the illness he caught
Just the scarf he once bought
Relieved slightly the pain
But all his trials and hopes were in vain…
When night finally came over town
Our penniless writer, powerless fell down
On his knees, close to crying:
“Oh God I beg thee!”
He pleaded to heaven
“I ain’t afraid of to leave here
But afraid of the ache
When my body doth brake
So show mercy, don’t let me,
Oh Grateful, be dying!”
And thus went his first tear
As mourning wept Devan
Over his fate…
While the evening got night
And the night got late
He heard some footsteps by his side
Small footsteps from children
Alone, lost, freezing, forlorn...
And like little pilgrim
They sat next to him
“Dear Sir, mayest thou help us?”
they asked like God’s scorn
of his pleas in vain
“We freeze, can’t find home ‘cos
we lost our parents in the crowd.”
“For Goldsmith’ sake!” He cried out loud
“Can’t you see I have problems of my own?
I’m dieing here to put it plain!
So just leave me alone!”
The children they shivered from cold and from fright
And our fate stricken writer sighed
In defeat and tried to speak calmer
“Oh Christ, so then come under my coat
and you’ll get warmer
I can’t let you be freezing with streets over snowed.”
He said that so softly with a smile on his lips
The children felt safe now with him
And flung their arms ‘round his hips.
He smiled and read to them a sweat poem
Though his heart and hope was dim
“Your parents will soon come, take you home
Have no fear, don’t let your hearts be clouded
They lost you when the streets were crowded
I’m sure they’re searching yet for you.”
He whispered ensuring while a chill ran through
His body again. The children were warm
But not enough to ease the harm
Cold had caused to the trembling man
But it was not before then
That he had felt the spirit of Christmas.
He read them stories and poems so jolly
“And thus” he said, “spoke the shepherds; Lord bless
this child in the manger
let it not suffer under men’s folly
and not experience harm under Herod’s anger.”
Yes the oldest Christmas story he told
To the children who warmed and grabbed a hold
On him, so they wouldn’t sink to sleep
Because he feared their slumber’d be deep
And forever, not like, but BE Morpheus’ brother
Cold unfeeling death himself, no other!
And even though our writer’s powers faded
And the children grew tired
He read on and warmed and aided
To keep their little soul flames well fired
Through the whole Christmas night
When all was clam, all expectations bright
And watched over them.
He felt almost warm, when the sun’s first ray
Shone on rosy aurora on Christmas day
His body felt like burning and yet so weak
On this Christmas morning and in his arms
The children were save, like protected by charms
But still in his chest, this feeling so bleak…
Worried he thought °I can’t warm them much longer…
They are frail and much younger
Then I, and I can’t take any more
Of this terrible cold. I said it before
And I’ll say it once more…°
“Oh Lord, hallowed be thy name!
I beg you please, if only their parents came
To take them home into the warm chamber
Because the sun with her rays like ember
Can’t warm them and neither can I so Lord please hear---“
But he was interrupted by a blissful cheer
It was a young woman with husband,
He looked quite relieved, she cried and
They ran over to the three...
The children so happy struggled free
From under the coat of the writer
And ran to their parents whose hearts got lighter.
“Mummy, Daddy we missed you so badly
‘tis was cold and we frightened so madly.”
Mother, father and children they were reunited
And our freezing poet who had recited
His stories and poems and rhymes through the hours of dark
He smiled at this family, his coughing a soft bark.
He felt warm now, much warmer than ever before
When they came over to invite him to spent
Christmas with them, he smiling closed his eyes
And opened them… nevermore…
The parent’s quickly took their children, telling them lies
“He was an angel, from heaven sent
now he’s just sleeping before going home
Don’t worry he doth be alright, now come!”
The little family went away from the cold man
Having a cheerful holiday then.
You may think now, that’s unfair
That’s not how the story should be ending?
Well it’s all depending
On what you imagine, a complete end is rare…
Likewise for our dead artist…
