Wednesday, February 16, 2011

A VERY corny poem about an adventure I had one time.

I walked away and crumpled in my car
The night the ides of March struck sharp and true
I drove home- the familiar roads, I barely knew
A block away, I slowed to wonder who you are

So why in Paris? Why, at seventeen,
Did I find you, miraculously there,
Know you so well, that from the topmost stair
I called you, and you turned- what did it mean?

Did it mean Fate rules Paris, or the Louvre?
Did it mean I should find the things I miss?
Or God set us in clockwork- maybe this
Is blasphemy- or maybe this is proof

Of graciousness- some grain of hope in love
For seventeen, that day has been enough.

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