Beneath the Opera
Frozen fingers overlapping,
veiled within the moldings
of Haussman architecture.
Discovered unexpectedly,
a murky pool with silent whispers
of the bones of the unknown.
A welcome taste of fresh depths
to be parched.
The sunlight never ventures,
aside from the sharp grey vent
gazing up at the grate of vanity and mirrors.
Sealed in darkness, the pithy
toes of the elite resting on glass-smooth marble.
Near silence, since there is no moon,
augmented by a drip that predates time.
No smell of salt, no spray of waves.
Only stale air, and the tease of perfume.