Meet me at the chapel, where we can dance around the empty alter,
And set the empty air ablaze into the flames that will never falter,
Come into the graveyard; dig up the unforgotten dead
and embrace their final kiss as we let ourselves be led
to what could have been.

Listening to the mockers who feast only to grow into a bigger fuel
for the never ending fire.

Let us sit around the fire and hope to warm ourselves from the cold,
Tell tales of what could have been and comfort ourselves with a blanket of hope,
Roasting on the phoenix fire our untouched chestnuts,
Watching little chickens cry that the sky is falling apart,
Feeling the rain all around, wanting to catch one final tear
but not finding a tear willing to fall as we cuddle up and hide from our fear
what could have been.

And hope that we can one day afford a heater that is not fire,
and roll the dice of happy fate.

Do you care, do you care?
Live men sleep in Dead Man's Lair,
Breaking the lens of their eyeglasses to see reality?
Tossing and turning in the beds they make, not of flowers, but of snakes;
rarely of roses and mostly of rocks, shivering in their encompassing blanket
what could have been.

Is it best we leave what could have been uncontemplated,
and weep for the tragedy that is?

We sit around the Christmas tree and anxiously tear apart
the wrapping paper, only to find boxes stuffed with nothing.