A work in progress…

Across a field of sunflowers,
in Provence.
The cadmium yellows,
celebrated my provenance.
Amongst the lavender, away,
I found refuge.
The never ceasing beat,
of a self-inflicted funeral dirge.

Under an alabaster roman bridge,
I cried.
The ink I wanted was not for me
or my bone fides.
My final act to reclaim myself
lay in vain.
Realizing that by not doing so
was more pure, less vane.

My wife took me by my hand,
and squeezed.
Then under the arches above the creek I knew.
That I was me, and you were you.

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