Ode to Paris in March

The city is old,
Made of something far more ancient and real
than concrete.
We are young,
Young enough to speak in French,
And be answered in English,
And not take it in stride.
You are a red beacon
I know I shouldn't follow.
But what if I get lost?
I need an anchor,
That at least I can photograph,
All smiles,
And search for on the metro,
With fleeting, unfounded panic.
I sit with you on a fountain touched with gold
And antiquity.
I can see myself falling back into the water,
That will become a bottomless ocean,
White fading to teal and then black above me as I sink, saturated.
Would the dark consume me
Beyond return to an acceptable light?
I am indecisive, and you are
Quiet.
I dip in my hands and drink deep.

Reviews

[Vesa Lee]

I truly enjoy your writing style. It's very saturated, layered, and echoic.
Like I'm reading a dream I once had many years ago...it's familiar and yet very strange to me.
This piece is a perfect example. Beautiful and haunting.
I thoroughly enjoyed this.