Fairytale Town

I want to live in fairy tale town And open me a book shop. Might not make much money mind. But I don't mind, that's not what I'm looking for. A cobbled street, and a years old tea pot. Two Victorian glass windows, To either side of a great oaken door. With the words "antiquities" emblazed above. One church spire and a sweet shop below,  next door to a fish and chips vendor.  The smells of which fill the merry streets of fairy tale town. Where people always need old books. Stocked behind venetian blinds  Collecting dust because they're never cleaned.  Row after row of books.  Small, big. Battered and broke.  I would never throw one away.  Remised to even sell them, each one is a treasure.  They tell their own stories.  It would be modest, of course, this little shop of mine. Or ours.  A tiny front room, a labyrinth of shelves.  A till, for when the book sell themselves. And a back room that is just right for two.  Two chairs, a fire and book panelled walls. One table sat central, chess board atop. Years have worn the squares to fade.  Two cups, one pot. Fairy tale town, a game well played.

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Perhaps I simply prefer the simplistic style of it all,
having never been one to enjoy over complication,
concerned cos complexity constantly confuses me.
Wing, drift, dive, drive then thrive.
It's obviously the natural order of it all.
Swimming seems strangely... significant in my memories.
The word would be "lucid" but only she would know, vivid is reserved for our unimaginably infinite imagination.
Fractured faces fall, forming fractions of the four-hundred focused on before hand.
Immortality.

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At least three Elephants, two Dogs and a lonely Dragon.
At Home I hold the foot of at least one.
Clara sings her sickly sweet songs helping the rain cling to their fur.
Plethora of reading material, words you cannot care for.
Candelabra in mockery of a champagne flute, one silent instrument.
Vegetation alongside the slender forms of multi-coloured women span the house hold.
Caged letter box and the popery, a little book of scribbles and scrawls, some kind of genius but just as unsure.
Atlas never held this much weight, orion hangs in the sky forced as any to remain.
Clouds try their best to obscure the night light flooding in
Flooding the land as they rain down upon it.
Glass houses never break, this one is built of bricks
and sand
and wood
and things.

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Ever had a song reverberate through your skull. Till tears drop down one two three on the floor at your feet Whilst you talk to someone you thought you knew To only realise that it's someone you've never met before  At the time closed eyes, blindly leading an orchestra of pre determined music.  The sound conducting you far more than you do it.  In reverse you'd think it'd be worse but ears can't help finding beauty in the back water noise. Empathising with the writer, you assume you feel how they felt. Or at least some semblance of their frame of mind, Or do you think you could not be further from them? The code created is not always well received. So until the crack when snap out the trance,  You believe yourself to be someone else, who you assume you've known for time.  When the song is over,  You feel the trance crack. Eyes snapping open, that person is gone. You can see only in the words written before you.  Only through the mist of three tears

Toby and Sam

Peculiar lucid dog dreams, an exhaustive hallucination congeals from 45 milligrams.
Trotting round in circles, what would otherwise be seen as normal, now is to be watched for.
Both on the left hand side and drag, always to the left, steering clear of the traffic that hurls it self past at a pace.
One,
      by,
          One.
After a while, lying down remaining still. A breaths distance away. Living carpets of more than ample worth.
Mirrors double rooms in size, whoever watches from the other side must be bored.
Clocks and mirrors, mirrors and clocks, along side an unlit fire place.
Tick,
       and,
             Tock.

Sunset on the Wirral

The sky turns a slow orange  as birds drift with the Mersey out to sea.  A couple talk and watch the photographs. Smoke plays round the wind  escaping on the breeze. The sound of which echoes behind through the streets. With the landscape a mile away so drastically different, trees and churches across the water.  The air is still for a moment and the insects come alive.  Crawling up my hairs as the liner crawls along the water.  Three spots of cloud mar the otherwise unblemished sky.  Cobbles and stone against the water.  Near ten and the streets still overflow  the sky seems to have drawn them out,  sun artist painting the streets with people and painted as a skyline sky.  Even silhouettes fade as the sun recedes. The sky turns fast, blue Then black.  The moon dead ahead, After watching the sky turn a slow orange.

Elnick.

The smell of those trees reminds me of a childhood 

shared with the green and yellows of summer, 

through to the auburn halloween nights of fall. 

My walk falls pace by pace much faster than the last, 

rushing home, already forgetting those smells. 

Picture perfect i see smash cut images from my childhood, 

and of course i wish my self back there.

It seems so long ago, more than a decade since actually.

Now all i can think of is a reintroduction.

I need to walk that school corridor where i was dragged by my ear in hilarity,

and i must walk across those same fields and hills i did as a child. 

Hovering above my nostalgia i found a memory, one of which i am all to doubtful of its validity.

Great Trees lined either side, 

towering above and around me,

 toppling down to meet the ground and me. 

One long road stretches beyond us, my parents are leading me, I cannot see its end