It's seems wrong to touch them,
even walk where they lay.
People in many voices talk about them,
and take pictures.
What would those who brought them here think of is?
Us, here, now at this place,
staring into our mobile phones
Sharing pictures around the world,
Showing friends that we were with them,
at this place,
at this time.
These magical stones,
these ancient; mystical stones.
Words will be written and the memories made will be taken away to be kept
forever
Not going home.
The streets we walk she calls home.
As I close and lock my front door,
she buttons her coat and turns her collar against the chill.
As I lay down in my soft, clean white sheets,
my duvet pulled up high keeping me warm and safe,
she sits on a street bench, hard, cold and exposed.
She is me but for the roll of a dice
I am her but for fate.
Not going home because,
... she hasn't got one
In the half light of waking
Through the mist of an early Sunday morning,
Orange from the sunrise
the day began.
Tumble through routeen
Auto pilot along mystical tree lined lanes
Lit by the days first rays of sunshine.
The magical warmth of summer days ahead...
It's going to be a wonderful day
It seeps in through your skin and goes straight to your soul.
It is the real 'Lord of time travel',
taking you back to a time and place where the sun always shone and life was good, or to that place that is dark and which is riddled with sadness.
It logs into your 'control panel' and over - rides your emotions,
lifting them to the skies or down to the depths.
Just a snippet and you are gone,
to a time and a place,
when you were someone else and for a while...
... you aren't who you really are.
