The moon hangs, like the main decoration on a very eerie christmas tree, gloomily in the night sky.
Its gentle glow illuminates the world which is otherwise consumed in darkness.
The giant orb, plump like a ripe fruit-
yet glazed over with a chilling moss, inches higher and higher through the starry Milkyway.
When the clock strikes twelve it reaches summit and stops - as if basking in its own awe.
Gently, ever gently the music of the moon wafts through its carressing waves of moonshine - which hug the world below...and in the light of the full moon the fairies seem to dance and glow.
Their tunes and merriment are in celebration of the magic of dreams and fantasy in the air;
But suddenly it's not there anymore, and terror strikes the fairyfolk as they are abandoned in pitch black -
The moon has disappeared.
A candiflossed cloud eclipses the globe and steals the magic from the world.
But soon the moon is free from its disguise and the merriment continues.
Late into the night, when the goddess has long since begun her decent, like a silver'd over balloon, deflating - ever so slowly.
The fairies go back to their flowers and trees, go back to sleep and the world begins to lose its magic again...the soft symphony starts to die, in a slow pianissimo.
And just as she disapears, and sinks into the horizon, just as the dawn approaches, the world is engulfed in a deafening silence - in anticipation.
And as if the interval had gone on for hours, the sky bursts out into a carcophany of trumpets, and orchestra;
a crescendo jubilation as Apollo then edges into existence.
He brings a new kind of magic;
The magic of life.
All this I see, all this I hear when I play my sonata.
I feel the softness of the moon.
I feel the magic as I dance across the keys.
I see the world in a different light, through the music notes sketched into my mind.
And then as the night dies, I experience the rebirth of a new day, through the rise and fall of my melody -  
All in the span of just a few minutes and then its gone, all gone -
And I am left starring, alone at the blank pages.

Twirling and swirling and whirling
A flash of red whisps through the crowd of dull and funeral-like decor.
She spins aimlessly, messily through the practised, and utterly strictly ballroom dancers -
Their faces a monotany of emotionless control,
Their poise impeccable,
And only the tell-tale bead of sweat and counting under their breathe betrays the otherwise flawless act.

Again a flash of red, and the floor is filled with life...besides the robotic dancers (and I don't mean they were doing the robot) who were already in the midst of a rumba.
Her closed eyes lead her to and fro through the dancing dead,
Her wandering hands grasp at the music flowing through the air,
Although there is not a learned step to her unprepared jive and jiggle;
her passion and innocence are enough to let any shy observer know who the real master of salsa really was.
Her carelessness was enough to inspire anyone to dance as she did
-and to break the solid, conservative mentality of society
- and to break away from conforming to the norm,
And to be yourself, no matter what anyone really thinks,
Since even though everyone may judge you, there'll always be someone who thinks you bring life to the party.

A picture hangs squank up on the wall.
It's contents is of a stereotypical family...
A mother and father, and three children;
All smiling but one, the eldest son stares boredly and sadly into the camera and doesn't lift a lip to the photographer's insistent "Say Cheese"'s.
Maybe he knew, maybe he was old enough to understand what was to come.
The picture changes -
The mother grows old and grey haired, her smile fades like a candle out of wick.
The baby in her arms grows into a young man, with a sorrowful face and darkness in his eyes.
The girl's hair from it's shimmering lightlight turns black and raven-like...her face screws up into a frown.
The son, no longer a boy, but a man, stronger, and even more defiant than before...he stands, arms-crossed, like a protector over his family.
His face still stares boredly into the lens, but, this time he looks at least like he wants to be there, wants to watch over them.
The father, sitting, grinning;
grows sour and wretched...
his eyes begin to wander to other pictures on the wall, ones that he may find more interesting -
And in an instant he stands up and leaves, not a backward glance, not one...and he never returns.
His seat grows dusty and old and is never filled again.

Pictures are the stuff of memories, whether they be good or bad, they serve as a constant reminder of the past...which helps us handle the future.

I sit and wait, sit and wait,
And watch the ticking clock move to his slow and constant rhythm.
The rest is a blur, the people around me, the pen in my hand, even the hieroglyphic symbols on the blackboard seem to fade into an incomprehensible nothingness...
All I see, all I hear, is that clock.
Tick, tock, tick, tock.
It grows louder and louder until everything is consumed by that mechanical monster.
My ear drums are about to burst, my eyes are watering, I don't want to miss a second.
And as if the church bells are singing my daunting, dreary lesson is complete and as quick as a one-night-stander I collect my things and bolt for the door...
On to brighter horizons
Who needs maths,when you've got English anyways.
I hear we're doing poetry today.

If I had but an hour of love -
Upon this earth today.
If I had but an hour of love -
To do with what I may.
If I had but an hour of love -
For me alone, just me.
If I had just one hour of love;
I'd give it all to thee.

Everytime I see you-
I feel a sharp pang surge through my body,
I feel my heart hit over-drive and I break out in a nervous sweat.
It's a pity you don't see me too.

Everytime I talk to you -
I feel my tongue twisting into an uncomprehensible jabber,
I feel my mind begin to yabber;                 my legs they seem to stagger.
It's a pity your don't talk to me too.

Everytime I think of you -
I feel my whole body melt in awe
I feel warmth straight down to my core and I can't ever stop...
It's a pity you don't think of me too.

I wish I was as invisible as you make me out to be, because then, maybe then I won't see you, I won't talk to you, I won't think of you...and then, only then I'll know for sure -
that you won't think of me too.

Feeling so strongly about someone who won't ever feel the same way...is destroying me, it's killing me...it's pushing me away from all the joys of life, the beauty and kindness...
It's turned me into something ugly, something I'm not.

It's a pity I ever saw you, it's a pity I even talk....it's my heart's own silly fault I guess, to think I even had a chance.
With you, the perfect friend and lover,       I should never have given a second glance.

The space in time that stretches between sleeping and waking
Some dream, some don't, some scream, some won't...the point I'm making
Is that in dreams we enter a world which is entirely our own - as my man Dumbledore once put it.
Anything is possible but it's not up to you, actually I don't know who it's up to
But somehow in sleep we all come alive
And live out the narrative in our slumber until dawn does arrive.

Sometimes I wish would never wake up
But then I realise there's no point in wishing for the impossible...