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babble of newscast, glimmer of lights,
here in the shadow stands a tree, pine
lingering in the air and every year
long after. 
ghosts 
of thought driven from mind
by the incessant droning of 
reporters, comedians,
linger, too, fall to rest in the branches,
nestled among colored glows, 
shining like eyes. 
                                                     ghosts,
skeletons- electric lights, plastic tree-
monstrous reflections of sweet
evergreen and candles. so still-
and still an innocence, a grasping representation
of something grander and lost, far lost; perhaps-
      the heralded triumph over evil-
      the renewal of hope and faith-
      but perhaps something grander,
      far deeper than
      bibles or torahs or even prayer-
                  the true stuff of gods
                  that lies within us all.