I am boarding a train with a pain in my paper
and the hope of Versailles on my sleeve

to believe,

in a picturesque setting
I am setting my sights on ‘home’.


For the things I cannot see,

I run.

For the hope that the portrait will prevail,

I carry.


To the sail I am setting,

or the winds

carrying me,

may we not end in disaster

as the boat rocks

the cabins we cramp.


By eleven, another mother comes,

singing softly of starry nights,

as a tired troubadour,

seeing her eglantine expression in the flurry of fields,

mutters how, ‘this, too, shall pass’.


In the grass, a doe darts in step with the embers of the obsidian engine,

huffing out steam, to the beat of a beaten dream.


Gazing into the open field

it’s revealed

I am headed to a city

one where pity is par for the course

and source for a new beginning.

-Amy Struthers

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