A chime calls like bells lost in wishing wells,
scattered deep in valleys or lost in snowy mountains it dwells.
Sounds that paint the thick colour of nostalgia for a time you lost and never had;
having lost yourself in a fog of static,
glad that thoughts would freeze for a moment like ripples on a dark lake;
the moon reflecting years of torture, tormented, teased by ghosts of those gone
a long long long time ago. Tragic
of corse
but I dare say
you were just as much to blame
as a wishing well chime
or ripples on a lake.