Christmas is coming.
The little boy waits and wishes,
hoping that when he opens
his gifts on that morning
he will get what his heart
truly desires.
He hopes and wishes and dreams,
but he can't know. It could,
he could find that which he hopes for
more than anything. Or he could
find only an ugly black rock,
denying to him his wishes.
The suffering is in the wait,
in the suspense.
Someone knows something
but won't speak it.
Will the wait make the
heart grow fonder?
Will the gift still be there?
I pray so.
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