O, Christmas Tree... Poem by Daniel Y.

One morning I woke, to a vicious attack.
Cut at the waist, by a felling axe.
Dragged in the snow, and carried away.
How much I had cherished
merry christmas day.
Erected inside, a place with no sky.
But windows to see, how cold it must be.
They dress me in jewels,
I feel like a flower,
and they give me presents
to color my pallor.
I ask the stockings, but they giggle
and recite carols.
What exactly are sugar plums?
They incite my peril.
The mistletoe dies above childish kisses
As I also die, above childish wishes.

Fruitcake is a great conversationalist.
He’s seen many christ-massacres.
He warns me of the coming apocalypse.
Huuu. Feeling weaker daily.
I’ve lost my roots- my place.
I will no longer be,
evergreen.

I wake once more, to a garrulous clatter.
I opened my eyes, to see what was the matter.
A butcher, a baker, the candlestick maker.
Screaming brothers and sisters,
cut into bits
and seared from their blisters
turning to grits.
Thrown in the hearth
the flames still whittling.
Oh, how the smell. Is. Unsettling.
Burnt maple and pine.
I am frightened.

Crying myself to comfort.
The snowglobe steals my attention.
I see a tiny forest
it looks just like the one I’m from
and flying reindeer in Santa’s sleigh.
I see him once more tonight.
My rescuer, I think.
He extinguishes the fire.
But he winks his cherry dimples
and moves his starry eyes.
Then I watch in horror,
as he reaches in his bag and pulls out wooden toys.
He lays them beneath my drooping skirt.
Another offering.
I understand now.
I am a solstice sacrifice.
A pagan relief.

I watch my needles brown. One at a time.
And fall precariously,
onto recycled newspaper sheets.
I feel like the flickering candle
by the open window:
cut down by winter’s icy blade.
Withering at.
Amber fir is not so grand.
My lovely cones are marked for the sewers,
or else some wide-eyed child’s twisted art project.
In their stead, they hang me with glass apples.