The music box
Lies there unwound...

Warm sunlight bathes the weary soul
who sits beside his worldly goods...

Silence spreads thickly like cream on jam filled...
as rose tinted memories flood mind longing for...

Within the home where love once dwelled
An aching void resides...

To the victor the spoils.
Is that truly the case...

Oceans of pennants ripple wildly down the Mall,
grasped in hands so eager to affirm their truth...

Faceless spectres stand in silent accusation
as cloying darkness compresses light into void...

Forests weep as blazing branches distort and...
Reaching out as if to tear the rain from cloud...

It’s not my fault that the unicorn lied
Or the hippogriff hid all my clothes...

A petal,
Once soft and pale pink...

Can you hear the gentle murmur
Of the brook as it glides by...

A tree there stands upon a hill
Which bears such painful scars...