Santa Claus does not exist – Michael Serye


When the shadows I left them three blocks back and finally I back,
exhausted and proud, from the main door,
and I hold firm and proud in my hands
the gift of my present self,

she is still there, in the hotel waiting for me.

But the living room of fears has the long shadows of the past, and from the dark corner,
from that one perspective of truth she was used to, she,
princess who does not have to give anything,
from the dim light she searches my pockets
looking for dust and clues.

You are there, enthusiastic and neat as a child at Christmas,
with sparkling eyes and in your hands your beautiful gift and the desire to live it,
but she does not see you;
blind examiner sees shadows, past and dust.

Santa Claus does not exist!
The trauma piercing the bowels,
She does not see me!

The blood wet the gift as I stagger on my safety:
She sees her fears.
My hands are shaking, the walls collapse, I let myself go,
i leave the grip and the gift is already shattered.
She does not see me.

She cold’look at the broken pieces at my feet and among them my shadows
that only a moment before walked orphans in Alabama or so,
and now already sneers, mocking and cruel,
among the remains of what I could be,
if only she wanted to believe it.

and my present is my past.


Michael Michelle Serye, Santa Claus does not exist



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