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The Reporter
by
Rusty Broadspear
To the tune of silent night,
On the anniversary of when a child was born
That promised so much,
Is difficult.
Death is but a gateway to heaven.
Was the ancient message.
It can be easier to love a stranger,
Than to love someone close.
Without imperfection in beauty,
Then with what, do we compare.
I think myself as imperfect,
But I give myself a value.
I feel its cold outside,
But don't know, for I am warm.
I feel starvation outside,
And I am so full.
Seen the latest Bond film?
I've heard its good.
Is it good on Christmas Eve,
To be full, happy and warm?
Is it good enough
To attend midnight mass,
Or to offer a coin to a collection box,
Or provide someone with a meal?
I don't know.
I do believe in the power of prayer.
The power of power.
But two people
On opposite sides of the planet
Praying for the same ends,
Take the power of power
To the twenty fourth hour
And get results.
Its gone, the midnight hour,
So must go.
Don't want to disappoint Santa.
Must sleep
And keep
These thoughts with me.
And when the time comes
That I am unwrapping presents
And you think of me,
Then forgive me,
For my heart will be still.
And momentarily, the seed of goodwill
To all men will be forgotten.
I'm sorry.
Christmas Day takes
364 days to prepare for,
And with my mind elsewhere
For 364 days,
Am I not allowed a moment?
I don't know.
I am a reporter
I feed on disasters
War and starvation
Murder and mayhem
At the end of each day
I pray and thank the Lord
For the power of powers
I sleep
Wake
And then feed again.
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