The quiet has no place to travel.
Shadows deny it purchase
so instead comfort is found
in corners and crumbled stone.
You travel in spaces around my heart;
paths I have never seen and hold no hope
of discovering. I am left chasing stories
and ghosts. I wander after a forgotten memory.
Your boots are constructed of armour;
you step and the world steps with you.
They stand at attention; while I run up hills
your legs have no strength to climb.
When the shadow puppets
Retire to their houses,
And the masters fold stories inside
Old books; I will sneak through
The pages, and erase your name.
Before the ink dries, and
New words find homes
They can only afford on paper;
I will take the music you stole,
And replace the bitter soundtrack
With the colour of a summer breeze,
and the sound, of a brilliant sunrise.