Last night I went to Paris
with my first ever muse
and held her one hand
while we held the Triomphe
in the other

We basked in books
we bought in the rue de la Bûcherie
and gazed at herons in the Seine

We were two tired birds
that perched atop the Eiffel
one lazy night, ready for a kiss

That's when my eyes fluttered open
like the birds in Paris

people prize
the words
aristocrats toss,
not the effort
commoners
exhaust

I wanted to write a poem
because I wanted to test
the integrity of life
when life tests
the integrity of me,
indulge in decadence,
and create a travesty
out of society;
fall in love, like a skylark
does with his sesame seeds...

and it was not until after
I have written
did I realize
I have not written at all.

the sweetest happiness
is often savored
in our tongues
like honey
after a long,
and bitter sadness.

Too late in our efforts
to give love so adequately,
hoping to be loved back
do we realize
what was given back sufficiently
were mere lies
for they were more efficient
and the truth was,
we were never loved