It's Not Love Poem by RoseAnn V. Shawiak

Christmas lights touching the very soul of me with their
colorful light.

Reminding old memories to come and watch the parade that
is remembered tonight of my Mom, and a childhood lost
upon the sea of aged growth.

Tinkling brilliantly from olden days at Grandma's house
when I was just a baby.

Wanting to reach out and touch the prettiness of what I
saw.

Quickly feeling the burning heat given off by the bulbs,
electrically.

Pulling quickly away, blowing cool breath to take the
sting away.

Watching out of the corners of my tears as they taunted
me again and again with their beauty.

Standing afar as Mom kissed the burn away, then sitting
cross-legged on the floor to stare angrily at the way
they are.

Just like me, not wanting to be touched by anyone, only
they have the protection of burning heat where I have
none.

Later little eyes silently staring, watching the beauty
of the painful lights of childhood experience.