in My Writing, Poems

Tis the Season

Come sip the festive juice.
It tastes of cinnamon, cloves,
something strange you can’t discern.
Join us in the circle as we chant,
Tis the Season, Tis the Season

Feel your head expand and contract,
like a blinking light on a tree.
Watch as the world is delayed
by half a second, maybe more.
Tis the Season, Tis the Season

Hear the chant continue like
a runaway train, your mouth moving
without thought, unstoppable now.
Try to clench your jaw shut. Fail.
Tis the Season, Tis the Season

Understand, like falling from a cliff,
this ritual is older than the holiday.
older than the first human societies.
Around fires, they called to the darkness
Tis the Season, Tis the Season

Leave your body far behind.
Become one with us in the circle,
unsure of where you end and begin,
as we call to the cruel ancient god
Tis the Season, Tis the Season


Thanks to The Bristol Magazine for the incredibly creepy headline about cocktails, that was phrased in such an odd way I had to write this.

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