Voyage Spontané à Paris
Voyage Spontané à Paris adventure stories
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angel28
angel28 A young woman with a passion for art
Autoplay OFF   •   2 months ago
I've always loved poems that tell a story.

Voyage Spontané à Paris

I walk along the gloomy beach with blacks and grays Flooding the ghostly sky like ink pouring into water Lighting slices through the mass; god's holy sword The waves of the sea seize my calves in bloody rage This is the devastation I call home.

My feet long to dance beneath the Eiffel Tower To feel the grass tickle my toes with pleasure My pale face yearns for the sun's hot kisses To feel the heat linger on my white cheeks Like after a passionate kiss shared in the dark.

My eyes wander to the dock up ahead Tied to it is a boat with a little old man in it Even from afar, I see the stars in his eyes The stars of which don't appear in everyone Only in those who dare to dream.

He calls out my name, "Son! Where ya headin'?" "Nowhere, sir. I am just taking a stroll." Fascination shows in his smile, "What d'ya say we take a stroll across the world, aye?"

He is an old man off his rocker. But is he really? He has a bag in his hand, and an oar in the other The glimmer in his eyes hold a certain seriousness, A goal he has been chasing after his whole life: To smell every flower that grows in the Earth. Is that my goal?

I step closer to him, "Where will we go?" "Anywhere you want, son." "I wish to see Paris, France. I don't have any money, though."

He says money doesn't buy dreams I've been told the opposite all my life He reaches his hand out to me And says, "come along" With a voice dripping with tenderness.

I somehow muster the courage to go To leave this place so hideous and cold I want to make memories worth sharing Ones that burst with color and life That don't fade away in black and white.

As we paddle against the angry waves, The home I left grows small and distant I don't feel bad, nor do I care anymore My happiness is worth living for It's mustn't be put on a shelf for a lifetime Until it turns to dust.

I can smell the flowers of Paris already!

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