(20 minute poetry)
Tied by this life and its circumstance,
I watch the mainspring unwind on what could be the final chance.
It's a Ballet dance,
for every pirouette we get
a silver star.
I find her with her slender fingers on the winder, she tightens me and time enlightens me once more.
And if Renoir could paint me as I see the silver star approach me, catch the magic of the present on the canvas in the frame,
what then would be the name,
The pastures of a night in Paris?
In the event of my demise
I want no cries to mock the frigid air,
but in that event
I shall truly miss her
until the night in Paris
springs green again.
Feb 1, 2016
Feb 1, 2016 at 12:34 PM UTC
(20 minute poetry)
Tied by this life and its circumstance,
I watch the mainspring unwind on what could be the final chance.
It's a Ballet dance,
for every pirouette we get
a silver star.
I find her with her slender fingers on the winder, she tightens me and time enlightens me once more.
And if Renoir could paint me as I see the silver star approach me, catch the magic of the present on the canvas in the frame,
what then would be the name,
The pastures of a night in Paris?
In the event of my demise
I want no cries to mock the frigid air,
but in that event
I shall truly miss her
until the night in Paris
springs green again.
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