brown paper bag

On a deserted platform

tumbleweed trains

no longer come

a sign creaks and groans

 

the waiting room windows

cracked and misted

no more voices

only the ghosts and echoes

 

they took the tracks

for scrap iron

no whistles strident

the barrier now, always down

 

In the corner

a brown paper bag

pulled tight

to hold his words

 

The last ones he ever spoke to her

 

Wrapped up with a bow

and secreted under the sill

a ticket office

and the faint smell of piss

 

1664 say the cans

bent and broken

empty Rizzla packets

at old Holborn

 

Was it that long ago?

 

a bent and crippled teaspoon

The Times, part charred

and silver paper swans

they swim in the debris

 

In the corner

a brown paper bag

pulled tight

to hold his words

 

The last ones he ever spoke to her

 

In the Tardis of time

his name now taboo

no one dare ask

the name, Dr Who?

 

days become months

and merge into years

soon only a whisper

washed in the tears

 

In the corner

a brown paper bag

pulled tight

to hold his words

 

The last ones he ever spoke to her

 

The rain bells its toll

and the moss takes a bite

the paper gets thinner

and fades in the light

 

sagging and crumpled

now wet to the core

knowing that he is

no longer a part, of the lore

 

written in daisies

that chained up his heart

eternity keeps them

forever apart

 

In the corner

a brown paper bag

…… …..

.. …. … …..

The last ones he ever spoke to her