by Tim Chiu
A Christmas poem about seasonal depression.
The colored lights twinkle and twitter,
Symbols of hope and goodwill in the darkest hours
Of the evening.
The piles of ornate packaging seem festive, too.
(Better to give than to receive, they seem to say.)
Meanwhile, a well-trimmed tree adds
Just the right touch to every home's holiday decor.
Yet, the yuletide strikes a dolorous chord
In my cheerless soul.
Christmas, it seems, evokes self-pity only,
I scan the remote wasteland of my mind's edge,
Conscious of nothing which is good.
I bridge the evil abyss with my indignant voice,
And I try to explain, but no one understands me;
The snow is white, I say, but yet it is cold.
And how I shiver when it snows.
My doctor explains his diagnosis:
Likely to dissipate after New Year's,
Happens a lot.
However, like all things that pertain to Christmas,
I take it with a grain of salt;
Because I still shiver when it snows.