Train To Paris Poem by Harlequin Rose

Train To Paris



How easy it is to jump the turn-style
wen freedom is on its way
following close behind
waiting with me
to board the last train to Paris
waiting to trace the fingerprints of ghosts
to a little cafe in Versailles
to breathe in the dew of early morning
and never look back
the newness of it all
unjaded, untainted
as fresh as churned creme
one may never know the feeling again
unless the pull becomes too much to resist
the gypsy call
settles into the eardrums of drifters
and our bodies answer
like lambs to the slaughter
the world is a raving place
we make it our own
sidestep the impossible
and relive that moment
of not know who we are
the day dawns,
the train whistle calls
and we go.

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