It’s the artist’s dream -
echoes of footsteps
tapping on cobblestones
poetry in percussion.
Strangers sipping wine,
spilling secrets,
sitting at tables
beneath his window.
A room above the cafe,
not quite an attic
but suitably rustic,
the atmosphere should write itself,
yet the pages
stay stubbornly blank.
He opens another bottle of wine,
perhaps, he has not suffered enough.
Soon, soon.
All Writing.Com images are copyrighted and may not be copied / modified in any way. All other brand names & trademarks are owned by their respective companies.
Generated in 0.09 seconds at 6:35pm on Nov 02, 2025 via server WEBX1.