by Nick Gisburne
She slaughters happy reindeer for their meat
And hangs the jolly fat man in the suit
Up high, up front, she sits in Santa’s seat
To look for sweet young souls to persecute
She puts a piece of poison in a box
For every eager, anxious, little life
Delighted by the ticking Christmas clocks
She grinds a razor’s edge along her knife
At every midnight murder scene, she laughs
To see the blood beneath a twisted tree
Her fingers daub the crimson autographs
No child will ever wake from sleep to see
As pieces of her poison kill them all
She feasts upon the flesh of those who fall
This was my 600th sonnet, so I decided to take a break from writing them. For now.
