The churchhall

(Hullo people! I know, long time. I wanted to write this for Christmas, but well, was otherwise indulged (read lazy enough). But I thought, what the heck! Any day is Christmas when you are among the people you love right? Also ,this is the first attempt at writing poetry and I know it looks like something out of a Dr. Seuss book but I just wanted to give it a shot anyways. Apologies if it (pardon my French) sucks! So anyways, happy reading and a Merry Christmas for this day and the rest 🙂 ) 

Tis’ the eve of Christmas, St. Nicolas pulls out his sleigh;

as the Magi follow the star that hastily leads their way;

In the old ruins of St. Petersburg is an ancient cathedral’s churchhall.

With luminaries that lead its pathway and dozens of churchbells that toll

It bustles with men and women, of all colour and kind,

And some broken, lonesome people, with no place else to find;

A giant Christmas tree with a mistletoe that dangles,

Stands guard to Jesus and Mary and the onlooking Holy Angels,

dressed in lights and colours, candy sticks and a giant yellow star,

A sight for sore eyes, it could be spotted from afar;

And there below the Christmas tree,

Stood the church choir in rows of three;

A boy clears his throat and a girl dusts her gown,

As they began to sing (their personal favorite) “Santa Claus is coming to town!”

But what no one noticed, was that just beside the door,

Four different people were sitting on the floor;

They shared the same blanket that couldn’t quite fit in four,

For their were fewer blankets and people galore,

They’d snuggle in closer to prevent the chill,

And sang the carols (in their own, broken lyrics) for time to kill;

One an old man, all bitter and sore,

A man-at-arms, a soldier of war;

Had fought for the country yet no place to dine,

Only mourner of his tale was a bottle of wine

Another a woman, whom tragedy had befell,

Her scars told a story, her lips wouldn’t tell;

A drunkard husband who wouldn’t work on the land,

And those severe hard linings on the woman’s fragile hand;

Right next to her, a beautiful soul of eighteen,

Needle stains on her wrist, her eyes dream a daydream;

A mother who didn’t listen, a father who wasn’t there,

All the guys that she’d been with, who never really seemed to care;

Sleeping on her lap, an  8 year old boy,

In his hand he held , somebody else’s broken toy;

Had run away from the orphanage, being accused of theft,

(For what was he to do, he was hungry, and the kitchen still had some porridge left;)

Four people, four strangers, four broken lonesome souls;

Found love in a blanket and four warm soup bowls;

On this cold winter’s night, when life was too much bear,

They found warmth in the moments they shared;

 They weren’t bound by blood, they cared for it less,

All they shared, was just, the feeling of togetherness;

On a snowy Christmas night, as St. Nicholas pulled out his sleigh,

In the churchhall of an ancient cathedral, life had found it’s way;

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