It's the heart of the winter
dashed and spilled in the pure white.
The poinsettia is but a flower
carelessly lost, cast away.
It freezes as it dies, alone
in the cold.
Longing to be displayed
Alongside others of it's kind.
But instead, it's nothing
but a morbid reminder
of the lost and abandoned
Who've been left all alone
On Christmas morning.
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