Time Travelling

I am stuck.

The fabric of time has wound itself around me
I stepped in, mesmerized by the colours
And now

I am stuck.

Taped to this tapestry
Sewn-in which are tales of my history
Of what little is left in memory

I am stuck.

On a day of the past
Sitting in front of a little television
Now things get a little fast;

The television shows
With all the blows
The Contra game
Mario jumping into his fame
My father
My mother
My family
On the carpet giggling
Cutting pictures together laughing
The trees
The Bees
That bit me too often, alright
The colours are bright
As we paint a pot
The winds outside carry shades of hues
Painting the world, a colour other than the blues
My room with fairy-lights strewn
Glowing stars on the roof
Board games
Bored games
Everything

And stop.

I am stuck.

Like a cassette stuck on the same song
Nostalgia;
That has lasted too long

I am stuck.

The winds just carry blues and greys
These days
Time is now just a blurry haze
Passing, as I sit and gaze

I am stuck.

Charred Words

Standing in front of the house,
The one I had heard a hundred stories about
I saw you rise into the air 
Like the black smoke, you used puff once
I felt you turn into the ashes
Like the ones that burnt me on the bonfire on New Year's Eve
Only, this burn won't heal as easily.

As we drove away from the
Hamlet of your Childhood Tales
I noticed something missing,
With a looming feeling of emptiness 
Like the times we would leave for a vacation 

Only to realise that we had forgotten something to pack
Yet, this time the article can't be replaced.

The next day, 
I found your eyes in the mirror,
The silver glass showing me your young gaze,
Not wrinkled with your wisdom yet,
Like the ones we saw in black and white photographs of you
Except, these are too sad to be yours.

A few weeks later,
I heard you in my voice, 
The same tone resonating in my ears
Like the sound of your annoyance with a touch of humour 
Just, lacking the heaviness that yours carried with ease.

Today,
I read you in my poetry 
My pages covered in words of you
Like fresh 'mint leaves' as you described them often
But, these words, seem to be too charred to be you.