An unfinished poem

As I walk the burning dreams,
Scorching above my head,
Keep on the pious feasts,
In this Christmas dry.

Ground rumbling deep beneath,
Gold miners strike away,
Dirt grovel sand and clay,
Deep in disarray.

And I wait and cry,
Now that I couldnt fly,
On a woeful Saturday,
In the Christmas dry.

On the dusty days,
When the summer says,
Save your fleeting smiles,
In the Christmas dry.

Hail the falling snow,
As the gusty blizzards blow,
You find the warmth within,
In this Christmas dry.

And beyond the frozen panes,
The shimmering signs again,
Call forth the frozen tune,
In this Christmas dry.

And I stand and try,
As the time passes by,
Glory winds do blow away,
On this Christmas dry.