Holiday cheer or holiday void—
my private parade through post-pneumonia rain,          
hacking lungs, my heart underemployed.                    

Someone somewhere scrolls on their android—             
bombed-out school, roasted turkey, a new detergent for stubborn stains.
Holograms veer through holographic voids. 

No Thanksgiving plans. Was it my cough or desire to avoid               
questions? Partnerless, childless—who shall I claim              
as my own? In what house will this heart be forever employed?    

Cranberries, squash, sky—their every atom, overjoyed,
insists the mystic. Down that vision with a dose of lion’s mane
before holidays steer you into a void.

Who’s mashing potatoes in the faded polaroid?
Who’s the teen cowering in pain?
Her heart, fazed and rattled, but never destroyed.

A rock whirls around the sun—oh lovable asteroid,
model of devotion. Shooting stars pour champagne.
Take a galactic exhale. Drop your worries in the void.

Say it, mystic: alone is a lonely delusion, the mind decoyed.
Light up on the Oneness’s high octane.
A true holiday is the day you befriend the void.
Hands reaching out through a broken world—hearts, fully employed.