(20 minute poetry)

Tied by this life and its circumstance,
I watch the mainspring unwind on what could be the final chance.

It's a Ballet dance,
for every pirouette we get
a silver star.

I find her with her slender fingers on the winder, she tightens me and time enlightens me once more.

And if Renoir could paint me as I see the silver star approach me, catch the magic of the present on the canvas in the frame,
what then would be the name,
The pastures of a night in Paris?

In the event of my demise
I want no cries to mock the frigid air,
but in that event
I shall truly miss her
until the night in Paris
springs green again.