In the Pine Make me laugh like you used to oh snowman with your wintery glare, when the snowset sun set over heed i glance at you in glory. you face me with a whistlestop smile and in the white you stop to whisper my name to the wind. careful with every breath you take, every morsel of fibre in your being-how do you break the scented silence. incense and cinnamon trees that pine for an everlasting love. But still the milk goes sour and the cookies crumble. Father christmas rarely comes anymore. Cellophane secrest wrapped up in a look, oh, but how i occasionally peep -at each solitary package the presents matter i, with such another as you with your wallet of worth not an inch of the world are you, seemingly golden, but not from sunlight. The horded gleams whisking me away from each silvery day that goes by. When i cry, you sometimes hear me. Outside my windowsill(the first floor) You creep and crunch over the sludgy gravel, but he doesnt care, not much anyway. And in time in time dear, i dream, i dream of you in some foreign field that is forever narnia. A land of iced fantasies-in a milkyway of intoxication. High in a talent of amorous features, the perfect world blanketed, in a duvet of beauty. Then i hold your hand and, sometimes we sit up at the stars, underneath a heavy pine tree. But waking hours come so quickly, nowadays.
In the Pine Make me laugh like you used to oh snowman with your wintery glare, when the snowset sun set over heed i glance at you in glory. you face me with a whistlestop smile and in the white you stop to whisper my name to the wind. careful with every breath you take, every morsel of fibre in your being-how do you break the scented silence. incense and cinnamon trees that pine for an everlasting love. But still the milk goes sour and the cookies crumble. Father christmas rarely comes anymore. Cellophane secrest wrapped up in a look, oh, but how i occasionally peep -at each solitary package the presents matter i, with such another as you with your wallet of worth not an inch of the world are you, seemingly golden, but not from sunlight. The horded gleams whisking me away from each silvery day that goes by. When i cry, you sometimes hear me. Outside my windowsill(the first floor) You creep and crunch over the sludgy gravel, but he doesnt care, not much anyway. And in time in time dear, i dream, i dream of you in some foreign field that is forever narnia. A land of iced fantasies-in a milkyway of intoxication. High in a talent of amorous features, the perfect world blanketed, in a duvet of beauty. Then i hold your hand and, sometimes we sit up at the stars, underneath a heavy pine tree. But waking hours come so quickly, nowadays. Yay! He is here, he is here, Father Christmas is here... * Oh, grand job, I love it. I took the liberty of making it bigger, in my response, for these old eyes... and adding a bit of pine color. I wanted your happy poem to expand in its fullness.
