I've heard whispers of Paris lately,
the city of love and some place foreign to me
where a man designed beauty with a tower
and called it art. I guess it was something
wonderful but I've studied beauty on your lips
like a surrealist painting. Your tongue
spoke of Greece and tasted of a thousand
nights on Navagio Bay, but I will call you
Paris anyway because you are far
too beautiful to be anything else.
With time I realized Paris was a city of false
prophecies, men can't be made and frogs
aren't princes yet not too long ago I'd chase
them 'round the serenity of a backyard pond -
the pond I haven't seen in months.
I guess I thought I was a princess but
Paris fell more remarkably than the London Bridge.
Towers burnt and I haven't been back there since.
I think I was born to write dreams -
the kind that makes you sleep for hours.
I'm the opposite of a Narcissus, Paris.
My reflection is a reminder that a heart is never
enough in the city of love.
The puddles always mirror you and
I swear I saw you in a window last night
but you faded as quickly as you always do.
I love time but time doesn't love those
who cower behind written words..