The Black Christmas Tree

In the heart of a winter’s endless night, A tree rose up in shadowed blight. No festive green, no crimson flare, Its needles whispered despair. Beneath a moon of silvered gloom, The tree stood cloaked in sable doom. No twinkling lights, no garlands bright, Its darkness drank the fragile light. Ornaments hung like frozen tears, Echoes of long-forgotten years. Their hollow clinks, a mournful chime, Marking the march of forsaken time. The air grew still, the frost drew near, The tree exhaled a breath of fear. From roots unseen in the earth’s deep keep, Rose secrets buried in eternal sleep. Once it flourished in days of yore, Before it stood at death's cold door. Now it guards the shadows’ lore, A sentinel of the nevermore. Beneath its boughs, no gifts were laid, No joy, no songs, no children played. Only whispers of wraiths in sorrowful plea, Encircled the cursed black Christmas tree. So tread not close on this silent eve, For in its shade, no soul may leave. Beware the tree, its spectral hue, For it may claim a piece of you.