Each Fallen Robinbyannaswirls©
She watches him from cigarette and sheets
chase ghosts from the window, both unmoved.
Chelsea’s last siren studies her feet
his typewriter silent, vinyl un-grooved.
What tune to become? New words to be true?
Does he not feel her there open, aligned?
Another cigarette, this time window to Louvre,
pencils post-modern, dust trace designs.
It’s there! It’s there! Sidewalk to sign
Some delivery of this artists perfection.
Lost in the grooves of his own twisted mind
photography captures beyond reflection.
But who was lost at the Chelsea Hotel?
The muse or the writer, neither can tell.
Form N: Spenserian Sonnet
Trigger 13: ghost, cigarette, photography