The sky is a furnace
a crimson resonance
of breaking day.
Alarms sound
their wakey calls
and weary eyes
survey the cold fire in the sky.
Birds wheel in the wind-blast,
updrafts,
of morning;
wraiths in the burning light,
'ash' from the fire
their colours lost
in the punishment of red.
The longest night
is cremated
as Christmas eve
opens its delights
and shops begin dancing
their last sadistic tango,
death throes
devouring wallets
and trapping souls.
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