Simpler Times
Her laughter's a ghost that floats on a shelf,
as she pours another drink to her former self,
small hands, hold shards from a bottle of wine,
tossing away sippy cups filled with sunshine.
His shoeboxes once held a fleet of toy cars,
whimsical wonder and chocolate bars,
his candy-coloured world,
now cold, sleek and black,
lost to time he can never turn back.
His empty engine hums,
but he doesn't sing,
for his plastic utopia of superficial things
each mile feels hollow, each turn, rehearsed
mundanity, monotony, his life-long curse.
Their old stomping grounds are too dangerous at night,
littered with needles and splintered spite,
wooden planks snuff out light from places they played,
as magic and marvel fades away.
They pass through crowds,
but don't feel seen -
two glazed faces behind flickering screens,
different lives, but a similar sad tune -
a requiem of innocence that left too soon.