Engraving the grave of love

A stone cold cheek kiss
That brought back no bliss
I dreamed the day of the dead’s
Carnival plebeian fire
Round the two winged heads
Of Notre Dame more than, ****
Your own ancient love pyre
The sky, navy, anew, whispering, sighing.

We didn’t babble, my beat up heart
Constantly repeating “beat it!”
But my feet thought
This meant the sidewalk:
We marched, on and on
We walked, both alone
My heels echoing
Paris, clear, calm kept on calling.

The pathetic pictures of two pasts
Fading away fading fast
During the day of the dead, dealing
With this tepid, torn, tarnished time
Last night I bet and bargained a dime
With my deterrence– a dime turned dove
“Fly away, Paris is no place like home, to love! “

Sunday, November 1, 2015, Paris, Le Marais