Note: I do not own Doctor Who. (Did you expect that I would?)
i. Rose
I take the words
I scatter them
Through time and space
not many words, you understand;
not much;
a few conversations
a few friendly glances
talking to a (blue!) girl at the end of the world
and a psychic girl at hope's beginning
so how's workyupwork same as ever
and some things never ever change
yet there are no sweeping social generalities
or conditional probabilities of the labor class here:
just chitchat
and warnings too
for the girl who labored over bleached hair and thickly layered makeup-
a human body stretched thin
to the shallowness of disuse-
for the girl who laughed at the mundane
and reveled in the ordinary crudeness-
a delicate game of weak links, death, and the same sappy game show hosts-
like the acid of experience,
washing flaws away unevenly,
yet piling silt up in other areas,
with a flushing wash of concealed
existential tears
so sometimes she decides to be
obtrusively stylish,
obtrusively maudlin,
poking you with the seashell whorl
of her filed-away personality
to hide the curving gaping emptiness
between the spiky outcrops
what to believe? what normality to retreat to?
And he is there.
And the normality is-
Onwards.
More experiences, more hollowing out,
which she hopes one day will shape her
into something new and beautiful not just whittle her
away to nothing-
but he is there
so she feels something.
for once in her young weary life,
Love can build her up.
And give her the strength
to scatter to others,
not passive erosion,
and she realizes
she is not decreasing her soul, but
spreading it further in a golden mist of hazy memories.