We are the gatherers, the collector of things
The young boy with a pocket full of dreams
Alongside the dried worm and yesterdays gum
The girl on her bed, amongst the dolls and stuffed friends
Each and every one, a memory in front of a story.
Our story, written in time, page by page
Scene by scene, chapter by chapter, we write
The ink, indelible, marking the past, our past
Red strokes noting errors without correction
Others may edit what we can never revise.
We are the authors, the writer of things
The young boy with his tall tales of high adventure
Glory days to warm his darkest nights
The young girl, her heart upon a diary page
Dreams of the future, hoping against all hope.