A kind of Christmas rhyme

A little monster perched on a wire, singing its way to harmony. When given the freedom to fly, he fell. Now stuck on the line in a box with a light, too afraid to move with all his failures in sight. According to viewers the night turns gold upon the bloom of the awakening. An open casket is not the same as a life. Someone should tell him there’s no option to dissolve without the burden of breaking skin. As I whisper the truth my words turn to noise and that little monster croons, “I’ll alert your next of kin.”