A Door In Paris

'twas years ago I strolled thru Paris proper and came upon Le Pere Lachaise one night - that crowded cemetery meant for paupers soft glowing with one beam of lantern light upon the rough stone wall there sat a fellow with leather pants and music meant to sing he spoke to me a voice, distinct and mellow so I would know his name: "The Lizard King" his face seemed so familiar, though I couldn't recognize it 'mongst the people that I'd met in person, and, (though I knew that I shouldn't) pressed him, thinking French was what I'd get he looked up from his manuscripts to smile with a soft assurance gleaming in his eyes and tho' my sense of French was oft' defiled with perfect state-side English, he replied: "why do you look for ghosts within a graveyard? for death is naught but your devoted friend save your fears for that in life that's painful true freedom's waiting, patient, for the end" he spoke about his ventures until midnight the concerns of music, poetry, and senses about all he had learned in ego's hindsight a yearning for the unknown present tenses the final thing he said was quite peculiar and found its steady purchase in my core: "it's life and death that ever try to fool ya but in-between it all, there are The Doors" 'twas then I heard the bells of Chapelle de l'Est ringing sweet to mark the midnight hour yet, as I turned to thank him for the rest in the spot where he'd been sitting - just a flower and right behind the wall there stood a gravestone a tiny shrine where people came to leave small photos of Jim Morrison, the person that I had talked with all that haunting eve ... who had left me with no cause ... to NOT believe. ~ 1st Place ~ in the "Writers On The Storm" Poetry Contest, Chantelle Anne Cooke, Judge & Sponsor. ~ 2nd Place ~ in the "Doors" Poetry Contest, Anthony Biaanco, Judge & Sponsor.