paris is a tumbling star, a circus made of brass
that strolls amidst an atmosphere whence memory doth relapse.
a fountain of forgetfulness where beauty hangs its coat
undressing in the sweet demise of treasure come afloat.
a pearl of wisdom plunders what the mind cannot perceive
the maidens of deception wither conscience at their ease.
a gnome of green felicity perchances at your door
offering satchels full of bon bons and a chance to settle scores.
tempting though it is to kiss the grounds with lips devout
and savior all the bittersweet to which these gifts amount,
missing is that nimble bliss in which our minds delight
wagering the sun when but a candle will suffice.
Hi there stranger! Has the historian become a poet? Lovely poem, simply lovely.
ReplyDelete