16h à Paris

In a divine slumber,

We wake with bags under our eyes

But when will we break free from this disguise

& start anew

With lavender lilies in exchange for far cries?

I suppose only pen and paper could tell that story,

We reach for the stars,

but oft fall flat-footed in pursuit of that glory —

What do we make of this mysterious mystery?

We soar alone in dark skies to discover our victory.

But what if we were led astray?

And had midnight scars ingrained in our memory?

What if we were made of fine clay?

And like sculptures in a rich man’s garden, we were thought of as heavenly?

I reckon only pen and paper could tell that story,

But who dare would care to read?

Just a thought I had in Luxembourg,

at 16h in Paris.

Previous
Previous

A Lost Saint

Next
Next

A Glass at Midnight