Red Curtains In Paris

The mentioned drapery is a tuneful gold

instead of smashing red silk,

following eight-o-clock light

out of windows or guitar cases.

 

I massage the rayon-blend

in a sudden waft of ecstasy,

having woke around gray firmament

that lifts buttered expressions and eclairs.

 

The air smells like black coffee

saturated by grindstone,

yellow blouses marked down

beside competent suits climbing up.

 

Everyone in the city ruins

their imagined breakfast to meet the metro,

alert with deep, savvy breaths

and spared livelihood.

 

In the cool pressing of emptied stars

time becomes quiet alarm,

gathered newspapers and brief kisses

herald the ten-to-four.

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About violetprose

Writing pulls me out of myself and into a world of color. It soothes, encourages, and inspires, among other treasures. I use it to love, work, and play. I pray it breathes life and shares hope.
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One Response to Red Curtains In Paris

  1. Sarah says:

    You are brilliant 😉 But this you know! Love the “yellow blouses marked down beside competent suits climbing up.” Oh, and the smell of coffee, sweet wonderful coffee

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