Coundon, Coventry, West Midlands, England
Ancient, yet so young,
The apple of my tearful eye.
His gift, such a curse,
And his name is lost in time...
The last Lord of Time,
Sad, wandering, weary.
Death and destruction follows him round,
His love, lost, stolen, broken...
His friend, new and chosen
Admires him and wonders,
Her friend, scared and forgotten
Forever doomed to a magic life...
His conscience is darker than night,
Withered, tired, damaged.
Despite his face of joy and light,
Hopeful, excited, unreal...
The blue box, rickety and fun,
The only family he has.
Inside it’s dark; full of mystery and life,
Most of them best left forgotten...
To me, a desperate look,
To his rival, a revengeful look,
To his brave soldier, a sorry look,
To himself, a plea for death...
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