The following poem was written in response to this postcard image as an assignment in an online poetry class
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The ink has bled to spectral blue, a date erased by morning dew. Some hand once pressed this brittle page~ now just the wind turns down the edge. No name, no stamp, no whispered word, just Paris in a script absurd. The Eiffel Tower, sketched too tall, leans like a man about to fall. What love or lie was sent in haste? What heart lay quiet, undisgraced? The postcard floats from desk to drawer, a ship that never found its shore.
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