There was once a time when I was the king of the road, until you came that night and threw me off my throne.
Your fickle eyes stalked me like the pale moonlight that dark December night as I entered the room with a bag full of confidence.
But I spilled it all over you, the enchantress whose name remained anonymous.

With your witch’s wand-like finger you cast a spell on me and attacked my sub-consciousness,
My legs failed me and broke like that of a figurine soldier.
Falling to the ground, I choked as tried to spit a plea for help out.
You weren’t going to save me now.
Oh no, you’d rather me kneel and beg for mercy,
Pining silently as I watched you trample over me with your nine inch high heels.

I’d signed the deal with the devil’s daughter, and she was going to sacrifice my heart like the lamb to the slaughter.
I was put under your curse now, and there was no was out of it other than in the back of a hearse.

You were the first to push the king of his perch,
*And you were the last to have seen him at his worst.

Thinking back to the first fast days when our hearts burned with the indigestion from the chest to chin,
Butterflies flying high and wild in our stomachs at the touch of our skins.
We ran quickly into the lives of one another that May Day that first brought in our summer.
Under the sun that smoulders and scorched our shoulders, we walked into the flames that burned we were younger.

Twenty years down the line our hearts have grown colder.
A blockage has come between us, but we can’t move the boulder.
I’ve even tried to dig up our love’s old grave and shake the corpse back to life,
But try as I might it lies limp, it’s body as frail as its owner.

We’ve tried treading water in the cold blue seas.
Though our arms tired and we drifted to our knees.
The current dragging us down stream and beyond the river,
Nothing will reprise our best years gone by and the time that I have given her.

I still hunger for those days when we didn’t fight.
Those days that kept blazing on and on golden bright.
Those long summer days that never wanted to turned into night.
But maybe one day under the sun that'll smoulder and scorch our shoulders, we will once again walk into the flames that burned like they did when we were younger.

I read your words etched on ancient pages.
From a different time,
Drifting through the ages.
What intricate thoughts passed through your mind,
Tingled the nerves of your spine,
And escaped through the tips of your fingers.

Is it a mirror image of a generation lapsed or a talent that still lingers?
When I compare our thoughts
And write down mine.
Different as they are, the intention’s the same.
To channel your feelings that are lying inside.
And to spill them out line by line like the ink splotching over your pages.

I’ve got along way to go to match your talent.
It might take a while,
With our opposite styles.
But maybe I’ll have my words drift through to another time.
Read in the future.
Passing down our line.

Your words may not have inspired your next generation, but, please, do not worry for this one.
The sunlight of your dreams may still be realised through the eyes of your grandson.

When clouds are overhead
It doesn't bother me,
I lay my weary head
Right on my lover's knee,
With her fingers in my hair
To soothe away dull care.
I go walking in the sunlight of dreams
In the sunlight
Radiant sunlight
In the ultra-white
I'm alright
Sunlight of my dreams.

When lady luck won't smile
I send her on her way
The weather may be vile.
All the livelong day.
But if wintry winds do blow
And summer doesn't show
I go walking in the sunlight of my dreams
In the sunlight
Happy sunlight
In the living right
Watertight
Sunlight of my dreams.

Where skies are darkest blue
And trouble's far behind
Young love is ever true
And hearts are always kind.
Everyone has time to spend
And pleasures never end.
I go walking in the sunlight of my dreams
In the sunlight
Laughing sunlight
In the dynamite
Golden bright
*Sunlight of my dreams.

Diane,
I enter this mysterious town welcomed by the eyes of strange owls seeping through the trees like city lights.
The wooden town, primitive in its functions, is set to the backdrop of two twin peaks, bursting out from the earth.
The ground is uneven from the roots of the great trees it has given birth to.
Looming above like majestic pillars erecting the sky with their enormous height.

Yes, there is definitely a mystic hidden in the misty air that’s lingering low along the ground.
Covering up the what’s, they why’s and the how’s.
Of this young girl, who walked with fire,
And got burned, ***** and torn.
With her body in a bag, sealed and taped,
Sent down the stream, sailed the lake and drifted to shore.
There’s an answer here somewhere to this masquerade ******.
It’s hidden under layers of false pretences of which I am going to have to use my sixth sense to understand.

No, this case may be more dangerous than I come have dreamed possible.

Ps, I think I have the right to suspect that the owls are not what they seem.
Goodnight, Diane.

Her mirror must be broken.
Maybe she should take it back to where she bought it.
Because when she looks into it,
The reflection brought back to her is an image of imperfection.

This is the girl that hides online behind a keyboard confidence.
With images of what she wants to be locked in the bottomless pages of her Internet history.
It’s outside that she should really be.
Out where curls of hers that change colour according to the seasons should be hanged out for everyone to see.
She has no reason to want to disguise her hazel eyes from the real world.
And no reason not to open them up and realise how beautiful she really is to everyone else but herself.
How beautiful she is to me.

For I know if she was ever to be mine I’d have her smothered in a sea of blankets,
And it's waves of sheets would consume her with all the reasons why she's the opposite of what her broken mirror shows her.

I have no idea why I come to this bar every night.
But I just do.
I just leave it feeling jet blue with the weight of the wanders of the world crushing down on my shoulders.
And I leave with questions and grief for anyone I see there.

Of pity for the girl behind the counter who isn’t very pretty.
She’s washed up on the wrong side of the great Mississippi.
Now she’s working ****** shifts and pulling pints filled with misery for the bums of the city.

Of shame for the alcoholic with his alcohol frozen brain.
Standing by the bar eying up his drink before he chooses where to take his aim.
But it’s his own fault he got dragged into this whole addiction game.

Of humiliation for the boy in the couple corner alone with his head filled with that question he shouldn’t have asked her.
At least he now knows his place for it finally been confirmed.
And so it’s time for him to forget it by ******* up his bottle of Estonian liqueur.

Of frustration for the poor taxi driver who picks up drunks stumbling up to his car under the influence of the pale moonlight every single night.
I ask him if he’s been busy even though I know he has been asked this by everyone he has picked up tonight.
Despite this he answers me just to be polite.

Of eternal embarrassment for my own self when my face hits the pillow and I ask what I’m doing with life.
Why I’ve went to that hellish bar another evening to get drunk off my face and spend all my of savings and come home alone to go to bed and cry again.
Worst of all is I know tomorrow it will be a repeat, like the next day and all days after that.

I have no idea why I come to this bar every night. But I just do.