Here I am,
sheltered beneath a canopy,
testing the rain with an arm,
thinking of ways,
to consider moving on.

I have seen several roads,
each different in but a single way,
each grown with roots,
unsheltered lines,
open to the elements and forlorn.

When I walk
the cold wraps around,
I take so many steps,
I have forgotten warmth,
on this path.

Now I'm nearly done,
all around looks just the same,
sometimes I think back,
to when I was warm,
and wished I had stayed.

There is nothing like watching those who you grew up with grow,
those occasional nights where you sit and think,
of what used to be and what we have become.

There is nothing like watching the years pass for the one you love,
thinking that you know that one day you'll be together,
but for now these are wasted moments.

There is nothing like watching the mirror that you used to know,
reflecting back foreign faces in the sober day,
to a mind still young with thought.

There is nothing like anything, that there is,
watching things change is all warm emotion,
no logic or accepting ideas,
just bursts of fire,
that will one day fade,
in a saddening way.

A blue door in Paris,
on the streets,
hides behind it secrets,
a knock, to the sharp tap,
allows the entrance of a man,
in what secrets,
does this sonderous doors foreclose,
and holds to its building,
the stories of lovers and tearaways,
that once resided therein,
and lived,
lives either great or poor,
thunderous torrents or gentle drops of rain,
by the blue door,
men and women have met,
they may have left together or apart,
gone in or walked away,
on the grand depart,
a tour de force de France,
London brigands, French vagabonds and German villains,
Spanish pickpockets, Italian bravos and Greek philosophers,
sad fools, great minds alike have stood outside this door,
the tourist, the local, the lost boys,
have found their time taken by this road,
each step a tick of life,
in this smouldering suburb,
this urban chaos and shuddering grassland,
this lawn of cobbled stones,
to the blue door,
of wood and brass,
etched reflections in the frame,
glass captures portraits of those many names,
in the blue door in Paris.

Here I take a hand,
I lead it down past glass walls,
on a stone worn stair,
past women in grey shawls.

As a face looks in fear,
I squeeze more tightly now,
leading them further down,
past stenches and tastes afoul.

By pale figurines,
that watch our fluid step,
tracking every sway,
counting every story swept.

As we descend,
down into the dungeon,
down into the lightless shadows,
down away from friends,
down away from them,
into the depths,
where we can be alone,
in this lonely sept.

Take the moment,
and pour into it forever,
such that lightness comes,
on the wagon of a drunken stomach.

Playing simple music,
bangs the loudest of the drums,
such that only the clever hear it,
on the crawling mountains of the mites.

Take a breath,
in the blackened water,
such that you'll never breathe again,
on the page.