Pray what use?

Pray what use to me, the philosopher's stone?
That wretched thing which draws out pain
A life without love, all alone
The prolonging of which is not a gain

So i seek not knowledge of that sacred art
That wise men termed alchemy
I seek to sew this broken heart
To live again my History

A time machine would serve to stitch
The shredded rags of the now
Stained, ripped, torn, the state of which
Cast a constant frown upon my brow

Oh heartless time i offer to thee
My broken heart and heavy soul
If in return you could give to me
The days which once made me whole.

A story in 60 words or less.

The Text

It was twilight, when loneliness peaks. He was staring at the ceiling thinking of her when a text stabbed him back to reality. She was the only person to have this number! With eager anticipation he pressed the green button and read:

'Hello from orange mobile, you and someone special can get 2 cinema tickets for the price of one.'

oh to bring back last year

Oh, to bring back this time last year
such joy and bliss
Holding hands down Chmaps Elysses
young love in Paris

But all young love must turn old
and it gathers dust
The summers heat became winters cold
And froze our lust

And i walk in gloom under christmas lights
Now alone and grim
With a dull ache that grips and blights
every ageing limb

And though much time has now passed
As it ever will
My longing feelings do hold fast
For you haunt me still

You

You are my past, you are haunting my present and your absence fills my future.

You are Paris, Copenhagen, York, London, Stone henge, Stansted, Lincoln, Hastings, Ingleborough, Grately, Amesbury, Folkstone, Battle, Rye, Warrior Square and more.

You are J.D Salinger, stranded on moonfleet bay, only Puk for company, you are Treasure Island, Oscar Wilde, Vincent Van Gogh, Ensore, Gauguin and Cezanne. You are a futurist, you are shockingly new, the curse of the mona lisa is upon me now. You are German expressionism, Ernst Ludwig Kirchner. You are latin America, Tanzania and Tinga Tinga.

You are National Geographic, a Giraffe, Hedgehog, Jack Russell and a Mexican street dog hiding under a bed, teeth bared, curious children trying to caox it out. The tears i hold back as i wrote those lines.

The dirty, loud underground and all the rats within, who are more compassionate than the humans trapped in carriages, tearing through the dark. You are vegan, vegetarian, a hippie painting machine, a liar and a cheat.

You are forgiven. You are missed. The tears, whose siege on my fortitude was not in vain.

You are a tree in Warrior Square gardens, you are the laundrettes, room 410 and 305. The corridor in 305 and the crescent moon outside the window of 410.

You are the number nine, simply because when written down it looks like your name.

You are all of the things i've forgotten to mention. Your Guitar. You are seasons in the sun...or at least you were. My Tivoli duck. Let us hug in a red blanket under the Scandinavian sun.

You are my heart and your absence leaves my life without a beat or the rythm needed to progress with a swagger. So i stagger through these obstacles.
`
You are all of the above but you are nothing i have known before.

You are gone.

If only you were here i could be all of the above too.

What is left for me?