Not Lost in France
Poetry
My
Words !
I didn’t buy
these words,
they were
there,
free and ephemeral.
I stole one
or two, perhaps more
with my
nomad thoughts .
Those
thoughts that had
kept me
company
that
particular day,
then I’d
spread them
one by one
on the stark
white
nudity of this
once
innocent
page.
They could
just be seen
in the
shrouded light
where
memories,
like so many
nights
without stars
walk hand in
hand
with endless
days,
and sleep is
nothing more
than a
distant dream.
No, I didn’t
buy
these words
they were
there
like before,
like
yesterday,
as they will
be
tomorrow,
but does it
matter ?
They’re my
words
for what
they’re worth
perhaps
they’ll find their
path
for eternity
or
simply
a day.
