The Knitted Tower

Strings of grey-brown steel cut across the stars,

Crocheted, as though par les mains de grand-mère,

To form the tower, both needle and yarn.

Vibrant pinched fingers pull sharply at threads,

Tearing them from the tower, leaving fair

Trails of white cotton tangled in their stead,

Then bursting into colours we observe

When we rub our eyes; stare at the sun's voice

too long; trace with our brush the rainbow's curve.

I think I like the sound the most, it's captured.

The light flashes, then swiftly fades, but noise,

It echoes in your chest for hours after.

Quiet dignity replaced by pride en

Plein essor. Bien sûr, le calme n'a jamais

Été le style Français de toute façon.