Letters From Paris

I wrote a letter With teardrops from my heart I walk the streets of Antoinette My mind dances with Baudelaire Love flutters as the pigeon’s wings on statues I see them, so close and feel the emptiness Like the cold stone upon which their wings rest My wine glass is empty Then full Then empty My veins are red like bloodshot eyes I am tired Confessions made I cried As I walk across the bridge of god Over the seine Notre dame stares back, am I insane? Have I been alone all this time? Perdu, in time, perdu inside my wine Hidden words and lost letters You shall never see Tossed thoughts in salad dressings Away away as the river decides to run I look back inside black and white photos How did I become this way How did I become the stray? Fallen spirit, burning heart Completely and utterly torn apart I stare at the Eiffel tower A mighty spear, that pierces me Into the million lovers of gay Paris Angels weep, pain flows The blood of time, the blood that becomes the wine The pain, inside of me For all the lost letters Mother and father never did see