GENEVA TO PARIS
On every street corner
in every city
and on every mountain pass
a relentless ubiquity lingers
like a spectral
presence.
My wife
a phantom clad
in headgear
walks beside me
a warrior
in a mythic underworld.
Even in the
realm of the fantastical
a semblance of justice
prevails.
Yet fortune feels hollow
my luck as thin as a lover's
embrace and as fragile as
truth.
My love half-mad
with grief
has chosen the path
of finality — suicide she
has made her abode
in a desperate
plea hanging in the air
in the echoes of
her tireless labour.
Is escape possible
or am I forever
condemned to the purgatory
of the 8:25 am train from Geneva to Paris?
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