The alcoholic sting of Boudicca's victorious tears
snares at least 2 of my over mulled senses
My knees twist,
demolition of my upper weight begins
Lights upon the tree recoil in fear
my fall is caught in pretty oval mirrors
Tinsel and other annoying creatures
set about constricting my air flow
The smell of pine,
itches at my red nostrils
Hands of recovery appear
pulling me clear of the damaged branches
My foot appears to have speared
a square wrapped gift
I can feel the acidic taste of sick
lodged with pride in my bruised throat
I seek the toilet
refuge from the madness of Christmas
My voice echoes
as the contents of my stomach splash
Now the room steadies
the best gift I could ever wish
My reflection confirms
a period of over indulgence has begun
© Copyright 2016 Philip H20s. All rights reserved.
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