Grand Style

One morning in May a horsewoman might have been seen riding a mare along the avenues of the Bois de Boulogne, amongst the flowers.

Joseph Grand’s final sentence, Albert Camus’ The Plague
A how many line legacy
Sweeps history's dust
Floor-length crises
Bring out the mess in people

On a given day
Who called the morning fine
Where handsomeness is strewn 
Across the oft-described gardens

A character's character won't suffer additional revision
The pencil's mightier for the erasure
As a pen rehash is a new page

How many times and how much
Can a passage bare before it tunnels
Off the continent and into irrelevance

Tweak genius fights completion savant
A duel that can't agree on ten thousand paces
Or a single step

Either way
The one who takes singular life
Shakes, swears, and follows
To exist irrevocably at the intersection 
Of meaning and the Bois de Boulogne

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