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TP123456789 Apr 2015
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.
Simone Oct 2022
When the rainbow showings down-and-out for the treetop to drinker and breather in the foggy thick airbrick,
Do you think it thinks of where it is from. Do you think it knows that the droppers it cleanses itself in falls thousands of footballs uninterrupted to meet and disperse at the touchdown of its leaves and waits for each one. Do you think the tearaways of the skydiver fall to the earthquake with comforter or feast?

— The End —