‘And all the people were made of magic,

With purple drips of shine; it’s hard not to hate,

The creases in the page were typical of today,

Each different to the last, and the words…

Well they never change.

On the brink of defence came an offence,

A secret pact with the sun,

A ballet shoe drowned in feathers,

And I silent head in hands,

The buzzards hadn’t long to wait now,

The subdued paradise was post jaded,

As the broken hearts, and swollen scars,

Find their place in the hierarchy,

With shoulders shrugged, and pondering hard,

Each word that wasn’t spoken,

And every song that wasn’t sung,

And because of every thing that never happened,

Made this moment possible,

Its today.