The Making Of Nicholas
Marshmallows roasting on the fire.
The empty packet tossed aside
Like the rubbish it is.
Laughter rings through
The rooms and floors
Of the decadent house…
The lights still sparkle on the
Christmas tree, and pictures
Still sit on the mantel piece,
Though much of their glory
Has been robbed from them by Age,
Despite the fact that they never change.
It was the fault of the youngest,
But what was he to know?
No one was watching him
As they should have been:
His mother was in the kitchen,
Cooking for the dysfunctional family
That was her world,
Whilst Father Dear, drunk on a cocktail
He liked to call "Who-the-Hell-Knows-What"
Likely containing Sherry and mulled wine
Among others at this time of year,
Slept soundly, snoring his hangover away
On the couch.
His brothers and sister played together upstairs.
And he was alone.
All alone on Christmas day…
Such a shame.
Especially when all Nicholas had asked for
For Christmas was solace and change.
And he was in luck, for he received both:
Nicholas found solace in Death.
And the fact that everyone noticed
And that each blamed themself
Was change enough for him.