Shunning The Season Poem by Linda Marie Van Tassell

As far back as I can remember,
although I never really knew why,
I hated the month of December,
soaking up rain in back of my eye.

Dark strands of sorrow surrounded me,
plumped high on pillows of feathered down,
while the phantoms of fear consumed me
as bright lights and tinsel dressed the town.

Something had dimmed the lights in my heart,
and Christmas always seemed twice as sad.
I longed for something now gone, yet, a part,
something I wanted but never had.

A cloudburst blossomed within the rose,
the moon half empty upon her stem;
and I am the child that no one knows
born of the night between her and him.

She gathered her wrath around my wrist,
pushing her shadow into my veins,
unsheathed her hatred; and with a twist,
slit open my soul to flood the plains.

He took her secrets into the grave
and buried them deep among the dead
until time unfolded like a wave
and ashes of old raised up their head.

I live in spite of an ache so deep
whose threads are the fabric of my own,
a child of sorrow with none to keep
uncrowned in the dust, unclaimed, alone.

No mother, no father, mercy done.
I wave my banner in quick retreat.
The battle is over; death has won.
Acceptance lingers on my lips, sweet.