blue-j

a little poem recounting a dream, but ultimately, recounting another little dream entirely. :) if you get the lil reference to the french language i loveeee youuuuuu.

There's another dream. It's Paris,

Full sunlight, the open drop-kick

Of the Sacre Coeur, who gazes intently. 

There's a busker and a sociologist. 

One disinheriting the old songs,

One there to retrieve them.

The busker, he downpours. Like a

Whistle, he tears through the

Ligaments of solid matter.

The sociologist is something of a

Musician himself, an artist of people,

Too superior to put them down to paper.

He outstretches the hand,

A very polite, very French demand -

And I follow him by the fingertip, 

He the pied piper to my child,

I recreate his steps in the expel

Of people, becoming an O around us,

The dream continues. IT is wild,

Frenzied, my bag on my shoulder,

As dazed and set in motion as I,

The dress, the dress, it matters too. 

It is laced and everything

Paris could have spun with it's own iron fingers.

This entire thing, made not by Paris,

Is an illusion for my latest conquest.

Notice me, notice my flair, see how je dare - o say.