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.