Our lives are ruled by minutes, seconds, hours
That march, like dogged soldiers, on and on;
Or dance ahead, unstopped by any power -
A brief, bright glory; bloom, and then are gone.
Time is indifferent. Neither kind nor cruel,
But pitiless, in hard and linear rule.
Small wonder, that a blue and madmanned box
Unhooked from Time and tumbling on its tides
Should catch our hearts and drag us in Her flux;
the promise of a freedom we're denied.
A key to something we could never know
Without Her, and Her gangrel Thief in tow.
Her Pilot! Changing faces, guises, voice,
Whose pipes from Hamlin lead us who knows when
Or where? Whose magic offers us a choice
To wheel through years, to circle back again.
To watch, unscathed, as Time and Space collide
Outside Her door, safe from the temporal tide.
Of course it's dangerous. Though his smile is true,
He changes hearts who follow in his wake.
Leaves scars and tears as surely as years do,
And pain as deep as any caused by fate.
The Thief's not tame, and wild things treat us ill,
Whether or not they want to, so they will.
And yet, for all the sorrow that he brings,
We deem it payment for transcendent joy.
She's bigger on the inside, and She sings,
And loves us, like Her double-hearted boy.
Both worth the demons, and the angels, too -
The Madman and his box of bluest blue.
Out of the corner of your eye, then, seek
For everything impossible. And find
The TARDIS, as she waits upon your street,
Or in the brilliant hallways of your mind.
Time may still shackle bodies, but our souls
With Timeless grace the universe enfolds.