Fond Paris thoughts.


Always travelling never arriving.

Went to eat my petit de’jeuner in a peaceful Paris park.

Later saw the lights on la Seine sparkle into life as the day neatly passed for the night.

Met my old friend and laughed through the pretty Parisien early hours to face the goodbye of dawn.

With the last glass of whiskey came the first sound of a favourate morn.

Always travelling never arriving.

The next day drinking a carefully chosen Chateau neuf de Pape besides Oscar Wilde I Spied an American with a guitar.

I followed him from afar to a grafiti’d grave, where I heard him murder the doors with every note from his dented fender.

The little sparrow slept and Oscar Wildes angel wept.

Always traveling never arriving, and I still can’t decide whether to brush my hair backwards or forwards.


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