A French Queen
An artist stood atop Paris
in her rosy red dress,
a smile from cheek to cheek,
a pen in hand,
a sketchbook on her lap.
Enjoying the beauty of the summer,
as I did once myself,
back when our hands cradled one another,
and flowers bloomed beneath our feet.
Each line she etched into the paper
spoke more of her mind,
more of her mind than linguistics did,
more of her mind than the outsider knew,
sometimes more than I knew
Her features themselves were art,
a self portrait forever evolving,
as circumstance shifted around us,
and we shifted with circumstance.
Those features contort and twist as
our chain links rust away.
We cannot face each other,
not how we used to.
A spectre of the paint,
a phantom of those strokes.
A painting around every corner,
hooked onto my mind's eye.
I often wonder where the royal road
had split for us,
and where she had turned a different path.
Maybe it's for my own good our road
has never crossed,
Maybe it's time to feed the guillotine
within my mind.
Maybe I should let the memories roll,
into the empty basket below.
My Marie Antoinette never wore a crown.
My Marie Antoinette wore a beret.