It skips a beat,
Drops a stitch,
Is an utter bitch.
Wind it up,
Tighten, twist –
Manage that mis-chief,
Get it under –
Control.
Redefine it,Scratch it out of your mind
Reclassify, Re-calcify,
Despise it.
It’s still lost, or never was.
The past always burns,
While the present always yearns:
For the things we lost,
In the flames,
And the things the fire might come to claim.
But we have hopes for the future,
She calls –
Round corners,
And whispers –
At shores.
She’s prepared to knock at solid oak doors.
She says maybe,
Not always,
Not,
Forevermore.
EmilyCracknell 