Mountains soar to un-reachable heights,
The tip to touch unknown.
Whether it’s blackness or saturated in light,
If it is a child or fully grown.
Crevices around every corner,
“invisible” walls in every inch.
Forgotten it is, irony in the mass,
Touched only by the Grinch.
Lullabies play softly at dusk,
Much like the oxygenic altitude.
So many sheets, repeat color seats,
Always oatmeal, a warm sen-sating food.
He fell from the tip top,
His body went flip flop,
All the way down the chute.
They were all in a hustle,
Feet under snowflake of rustle,
Walking would have been a dangerous commute.
No blind spot could have caught him,
Christmas was the time-sand pouring.
Only one grain left till milk would sit,
And his mind would consume him till morning.
The chocolate melted over the fire,
Dough just perfectly crisp.
One more blanket of sparkles to come,
All asleep to stay clear from the wisp.
Countless words were said the next morning,
Soon to fade off under the sleigh.
Egg nog filled bellies, seedless fruit of jams and jellies,
he watched when they had nothing to say.
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