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I wrote this for a poetry slam a while back.


The sun is curtsying behind your home.

The noise of London is fading.

The cool of the day settles in.

The fountains platter after so many years.


I sit on a bench

Facing your home

And I wish I could pass through those sharp gates

To see where your childhood was.


Through those black gates I know what I will find.


It is a place where speed is different.

Time is not as a hard of a master.

There are more trees and flowers to enjoy

On rare warm days, such as today.


I daydream about your daydreams.

You played with your dogs.

You painted and drew as if you would always do such.

You dreamed of handsome princes.


You don’t imagine being a queen.

You don’t dream about ruling half the world.

You can never imagine the world

That you would change forever.


Your time is past and ever present.

But my time is gone.

I must leave your fair gardens

For places with far less beauty.


When the sun leaves me in my time,

I know in your life,

The sun never sets.


(Yes, it is Victoria.)


Until Our Next Meeting,

The Lost Writer of Rohan