Paris in the Springtime


She sits alone

In her high tower

Writing a love poem

For no one in particular

While Paris in the springtime

Swirls outside her window

Seen, but not heard

Observed, but never felt

The plumes of cherry blossom petals

Blooming, rising up in bright peals where she must never go;

Oh, how she longs to fly upon the wind like the soft velvet flowers,

How she aches to write a love song for a heart other than her own.


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A poet driven by the quill, a dreamer of impossible dreams, a lover of that which the world has deemed unlovable. We're all stories in the end. This is mine.

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