Last nights colours blurred in the rain
as the bells echo in her ears;
slowly the cogs turn in her brain
but its fuzzy; nothing is clear.
Her feet reach out for the cold floor
as the world straightens in her head.
Stepping forward to the bedroom door
a mine-field; watching where she treads.
There is hope for this tired zombie
as she finds her way to the ground.
She takes a gulp from her coffee;
her state, she can now expound.
Today, is what we call Monday
a sad wretch that follows Sunday.
Hiding in a timeless forest
she wanders lonely as a cloud
searching for her story; her quest.
She is not another face in the crowd.
She likes to get lost in Austen.
She likes to follow The Doctor.
She dreams of tea time in Boston.
She dreams of joining The Watchers.
Every day; once upon a time
She loves it! – Is it such a crime?
To wander the realm aimlessly?
Soon, she will find the time; the place
to give this world a warm embrace.
This day adds another fleck of diamond
into a medley of spices and fruit.
Residing in a faraway island
moving forward on a flavoursome route.
But she holds tight onto her ruby slipper
as their roads meander; find the time
to remember playing by the river;
climbing Surrey’s hills; to hear church bells chime.
It is fair to say we improve with age
Life tastes better now we know our story
Every moment is written on our page:
our highs; our lows; our losses and glory.
Like the fine wine, that is close to our heart
We’ve got getting older down to an art.
Here is a challenge to behold
Dancing words, or so I am told
I pledge to you to write
Every day; Every night
Until every word becomes gold.
This is the voice of Always Chum
She talks all day; her voice is numb
But when she is home
Her words fill the dome
Bring on PoWriMo and thensome!
Melbournians circulate savoir-faire
in chambers of light, music and motion;
a coagulation of devotion;
virtuosity the hub of this square.
Pumping throughout the veins of the city
a plethora of colour; projecting
a collective nucleus connecting
in an atrium of urbanity.
The ground beneath me sending pulsations
a transient nuit blanche chasing the dawn
a sense of belonging; quite a sensation
when you are gone; I, we, will be forlorn.
For you are the heart, the soul, of us all
you see us; you hear us; we can stand tall