There was a story told when we were younger;
A marvelous thing filled with pathos and adventure.
We would admire the teller as well as the hero
as our minds soared with bright eyed wonder.

When were the myths replaced?
Where did they go?
How does one trace their way back,
through mires of time and innocence lost?

They mourned them there,
In the burned down chapel.
Roses were placed,
ever with care
The long gold locks pushed manageable
fair.
Speeches were spoken,
by boys long before they were men,
Of loss and of pain and of things forgotten.
Things gained.
Where are you now?
Are you still standing in the rye?

Rain mixed with dirt,
purity and decay.
They wondered how the young
could rob them this way.
A light, barely lit,
with so much wick left to burn,
Pushed into the wax.

In the story that was told, good found it's way.
The hero stood triumphant,
the black hats dismayed.
We were there once, you and I.
With your ******* beautiful eyes,
You and I saw a world to shape.
Bend, gently as ever, to our very own will.
We were so close our fingers grazed the surface,
sending ripples dancing through the water.

******* your eyes.

They mourned them there.
The dark ashen chapel yard,
Your hair pushed back and fair.
It seemed so soon.

******* your beautiful eyes.