The Phantom Of The Seine By Lori Yamamoto

By the river’s slow sigh, Leaves fall, autumn’s breath. A shadow climbs the sky, Iron threads of death. Coffee’s ghost lingers near, Bitter scent, faint and thin. The city wakes in fear, A tomb sealed within. Canvas waits, pale and bare, Easel whispers low. What ghosts linger there? None but the wind can know. A murmur, soft, unnamed, “Ah, Paris,” love’s refrain. Through café lights, unclaimed, Echoes of silent pain. A figure by the shore, Eyes like crimson rain. “M’sieur,” she speaks once more, A voice that bears no name. The wind calls, cold and thin, A phantom’s mournful cry. From shadows, rising in, A shape against the sky. No trace, no mark, no sign, But whispers in the air. The city’s heart aligns— The phantom lingers there.