A silent street,
Laden with snow,
Dented by footprints,
That lead to a door.
Those footprints show,
A chart of a dance,
And all the steps we took,
To a budding romance.
A familiar smell,
Wafts down familiar street,
And brings new sensations,
And the hope of a treat,
For this is the street,
Where everything changes,
And the strangest sight,
Your thoughts rearranges.
This is a street,
Where it is always Christmas.
When I'm here with him,
Times passes with out us.
For this is a street,
With different a sort of house,
The sort with gingerbread walls,
Yet untouched by a mouse.
These gingerbread houses,
More steady than the norm,
Hold us together,
And keep us all warm.
You see gingerbread houses,
Are rooted in dreams,
And they stand tall,
As reality bursts at the seams.
There is one at the end,
Waiting just for you,
So follow me darling,
To where the skies are blue.
These gingerbread houses,
All stood in a row,
Hold all our memories,
Wherever we go.
So do not neglect yours,
Or what lies inside,
For your memories make you,
Though you try to hide.
YOU ARE READING
Newspaper Cuttings
PoetryA collage of human life. Each one of us has a story, and each day, just for a moment, they cross, making us characters in someone else's. But are we heroes, or villains? That is up to you. ______________________________________________________ Some...
