Burnt-out


I stood on my tippy toes
trying to get a glance of the angel on top of the tree.
It went on for miles,
touching the ceiling.
The smell of pine wood glided through the room,
The colorful lights that twinkled almost as bright as my eyes,
And the stories that hung in little bulbs on the tree,
Brought me so much glee.
—But that was merely the past,
a distant memory.
The blurry, dull, white lights
allow me to slip into the past.
The bare tree is wrapped in frayed wire.
I stare at my small, plastic tree in the corner of my room.
I fall back into reality as the scattered blinking lights
finally burn out.

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