If the world was a stage and I was a play-write:

The wind: It was a musician, the muse of a heartbeat and whistling was its charm.

The leaves: The companions of the wind, they were the strings of the guitar. Dancing towards oblivion.

The flowers: They were the painters. A vision was their purpose. They played with colours and mystery.

The sun: It was the stage light, as it glowed upon the sounds of music in the air, the surface of the leaves, and gave life to all the trees.

The stars: They were the show stoppers, dancing in the sky. Revelling in the attention from the eyes of the observer.

The moon: The shy wonder of the night, sometimes barely visible. As it timidly sets the stage for another afternoon.

And lastly,

You: With a thousand stories to tell you’re in thousands of places at once. Looking for mountains to climb and things to design. You’re curious and too quick, never on the stage but merely an observer, but secretly you’re the whole show.


There are a thousand stories to tell,
So I’ll tell you a secret to this mysterious show
The script is blank, the pages clear white
And every minute new words appear
For I am merely following sentimental alliances
Just an observer watching as the future becomes clear.

To me you are floccinaucinihilipilification,
and as ugly as the word too...

Navigate sewers
swinging dagger,
poor, poor poo rats.
Clout is the end
all be all means.
This is the beginning.

Tavern town, invite me in.
Odd jobs for experience.
Not long after, gold pieces.
Make my way, eternal ring.

Navigate mansions
slinging war spells,
poor, poor private (army).
Clout is the end
all be all means.
This is the rise.

Tell me, now, I'm slipping into
myself like I always do.
I see the needle point.
How many times will it run us
through?

Tired, now, of the games you play.
I need a heart to communicate.
Tired, now, of the games you play.
I need a heart to trust.

... I may calm my fear
and unseen horror
with words light and clear.

... I may ease my pain
and tend gaping wounds
with verses of healing rain.

... I may release my rage
and spark fiery storms
of rhymes that burn the page.

And maybe, one day
I write about love's joy
in a dazzling lyric play.

I don't know what you want
But I could give it to you
All you gotta do is tell me what to do
If you want me you have me
Baby don't play me

Under the Christmas tree
Are toys for you and me:
First we have our personal phones;
Now, we can each have our own drones…
They fly high – they fly low –
Hovering to and fro.
Like eerie will-o’-the-wisp they fly…
Appearing like dust specks in the sky…
They fly high…they fly low…
We can’t see where they go…
Suddenly here! Silently there!
Like ghosts, they show up everywhere!
Like aliens, out of a nightmare –
Disappearing, ev’n as we stare…
Under the Christmas tree
Are drones for you and me…