The hearth’s consumed, the weeping embers wane,
A phantom pulse where vital warmth is slain.
The skeletal boughs, in frozen torpor bound,
Cast stark, sepulchral shrouds upon the ground.

A solitary chime clocks midnight’s knell,
The hollow echo of a fractured shell.
The tinsel gleams like chains of silver grief,
A brilliant mask that offers no relief.

Beneath the evergreen, the shadows grow,
Like heavy steps upon the trackless snow.
The year’s last breath is drawn in bitter frost,
A quiet cenotaph for all we’ve lost.

The heavy velvet drapes shut out the stars,
While ancient memories bleed through hidden scars.
A pristine ribbon binds a hollow crate,
An offering to gods of time and fate.

The frosted pane reflects a phantom face,
Lost in the labyrinth of time and space.
The feast is set for ghosts who cannot dine,
Pouring libations of forgotten wine