Beating Still


In the city there is music,

Without melody without rhythm,

Out of tune, beating awkwardly


Slits torn through thin veils

Scratch the surfaces of streets,

Darkened, daily, by failing light,


Sirens reverberate grotesquely in the night

Echoing cruel nightmares,

The air pulses


Streets beat back into life,

Waiting for the next low hum,

Stealthily love wanders about once more


In the streets of Paris

A strange new rhythm plays

It is past time now

To write again about love.











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