Christmas Day is any old day,



sat there to stare and wait
to gather and swell, eager
fingers floating above the keys;

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smaller digits dig into wrapping,
rip through to pleasure in
warm rooms full of laughter;

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cold eyes fixed on nothing but mind,
the gradual disease urging movement
till machine serves its purpose:

​

cancelling out contact, those
children's happy voices dancing
somewhere outside the world.

​

Christmas Day is any old day.

​