I reached into the back of my cupboard under the stair.

I was blindly fumbling over the rarely used items there.

My hand finally found what I was searching for.

A plastic Christmas tree that I had in store.

As soon as I touched it my hand recoiled.

My Christmas spirit broken and spoiled.

A thousand words and images overwhelm me.

Grief and rage is all I see.

Christmas in Gaza is attended by ghosts.

It is forbidden in Damascus, the terrorist boasts.

Christmas is stained a deep dark red.

Silent holy night of the silent holy dead.

Don’t come to me with your virtuous prayers.

All hollow and fake, as the guilty dares

to pretend that we can go on as before.

The blood soaked Holy Land is keeping score.