After many sickly ‘hallowed’ eves,
The innocent taste of chestnuts has become a velveteen lie.
Coated over in arsenic and burnt like rotting sage,
They have come to represent the state of our minds and the decay of our souls:
Simple reminders of the taste of apathy. 

What was once a ‘Silent Night’
Has transformed into an epicenter for delusion.
We’ve made ourselves amnesiacs,
As if we are forgetful ghosts standing in the blizzards of our hearts.
The trials of the suffering have been left unacknowledged like ghosts in an abandoned graveyard. 

The thought of a weary face swimming among snowflakes
Sitting on an empty street corner is unbearable,
So we instead say that we’re thankful for our blessings
While simultaneously gripping at our coin-purses,
Stark and full, as we pass them swiftly by.

They sink slowly into their puddle of tar until they’re buried-
Buried in the cheap concrete that we pour over their rusted bones.
No tombstone left for them, none,
Just a cardboard sign that presents the facts until it is also blown away or stuffed inside a garbage bag.
And slowly, we forget once again.

Chestnuts are cold and hard, like our hearts, when they’re found on the ground,
Having sung through the air and have hit the cold reality of the dirt below their highrise.
Not even the treat which we consume after a blazing bath can keep us safe,
Because we are a chestnut, and just like the forgotten souls which we walk past,
We are flammable.