Pursuit In Paris
Last night of August, driven to despair,
The pack, the scent, late Parisian air.
Cornered in the back, of some dream machine,
Head toward mid night, fairy tale obscene.
In a diamond flash, glints the glass soul's pain,
Sons that she has left, young as morning rain.
Stars in the sky dark, imitate her eyes,
With still burning sight, the mortal lense cries.
Lovers clasping hands, tighten in the speed,
Prisoned in escape, overwhelming need.
Fatal turn of fate, coming round the bend,
Roulette for wheel, role come to an end.
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