I have never seen snow,
That wasn’t made of cotton,
Lying around a town that I know,
Came from someone’s ceramic imagination,
Like they were God painting the perfect creation.

In this perfect place,
There are smiles,
On every little face,
And the air of Christmas smells of brick walls and cement floors,
Above a ‘for sale’ sign on some shelf in a supermarket chain store.

I don’t live in a perfect town,
With ceramic people,
And cotton snow lying around,
Little porcelain houses with tiny light bulbs that cast a glow,
Warm and welcoming, outside on the fluffy cotton snow.

But there was a time and a place,
That I painted a ceramic smile,
To hide the trails upon my face,
Of the tears I cried and tried to hide and still I can’t remember,
A Christmas since then that hasn’t been a ceramic December.


 
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