Where many a soul have drowned,
Charmed by the hunter’s fires,
As his beast, so tightly bound.
With scenes of the grey in life,
The disillusioned riot,
The arbitrary is rife,
As they do feed the disquiet.
Lavender scents do stain,
Reminiscent of you,
With a sense that remains,
Long after you pass through.
Time. I am forever checking my watch. The need to constantly know the time is insatiable. I am unaware of what I am waiting for, or what I miss with my eyes on the watch face. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, I could continue in this vain forever, and, in the past, I have. Today perhaps I begin my time travel backwards to a simpler time. Back to basics. Only I always fear I could turn my pilgrimage to the bookshop to buy a book into a philosophical journey of self-discovery. What am I expecting back at the starting line? Will one author’s literary journey and transformation somehow mirror myself? The author who turned a passion for reading into a fiery inferno, And even now, I am frightened to turn the pages.