Girl In Parisienne Fog

GIRL IN PARISIENNE FOG All evening fog is settled from the ground, not right in where it goes, nor where it's found; the Seine makes distance to each barren tree unmeasured from the mind to what should be, and blended to the world that's all around. And from the limestone walls, echos the tap of femininity, in evening wrap; she's hurried, lest the night finds her alone and vulnerable to legends she has known; yet she's desirous of what couldn't hap. The corner street lamps lend their halo'd light grotesque in their own way, as if they might leap out of time and drag her by the throat and cast her down into a timeless moat, where she would die alone 'for ends this night. She clutches to her breasts, where minds go mad, as if it's all the love they've ever had, but she will cry all night, when she's alone into the pillow love has never known, and that's what makes her tale so very sad. Her plea's for love, that doesn't have to end, like only dreamers deem to comprehend, but all she finds are bodies falling on what she has sold from evening to the dawn, and not a one could be even a friend. © Ron Wilson Arbuthnot aka Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet