We may not be dying
But we are ailing
There is a long recovery ahead
Two capable hands
Two loving hearts
Will attend to us while we’re abed
The world collapsed inward
It’s under construction
But we are still buried in rubble
With sonic screwdriver in hand
And a blue box at his side
He will get us out of our trouble
Perhaps he will take
One lucky someone
Back out to the stars
But even if that is not so
We all know
He has taken our hearts
Our diseases are uncommon
Yet we all have them
They are of the mind
But we can trust
No matter what
The antidote he’ll find
While we may be specks
In the middle of
an expansive universe
We mean something
We’re worth something
He’ll protect us from every curse.
He always runs
Through the halls
As if he can fly
And while he is immune
To death
He ultimately dies
Style is important
Fashion is the key
to saving the world
He is fire
He is ice
He is rage
He is the night
He is a storm
He breaks down every cage
He is wonderful
An alien mother stops her story, smiling at her sleepy child.
“Who is he, Mama?” She pauses before she answers.
“He’s the Doctor.”
Boston’s gentrification problem
On music
