There is no map to follow,
no tire tracks or trails in the dirt,
but you always find your way back,
at the snap of my sorrowful fingers,
hurrying out of the hollow silence into a symphony of sentimental memories.
Mad in the mist, you meander,
my scent still lingers in the air,
and you are a happy hound dog,
making your way back to your mistress in your Sunday best,
on a Saturday night.
I am your erstwhile, ever loving enchantress,
sending out my siren song,
signalling the starlight to surround us,
and once again,
the world is full of wishes,
and I’ve got you under my spell.