When the world starts to view love as a natural disaster
sometimes the storm passes.
And sometimes … it is Katrina,
and I am the French Quarter.
Horrors
flooding corridors
and filtering through urine soaked floors;
a whirlpool of recklessness.
Higher ground like – excuses.
Refusing to leave,
I am the native of New Orleans –
who is standing on the rooftop,
waiting on a miracle,
waiting on a rainbow,
always WAITING for things to dry out.
sometimes the storm passes.
And sometimes … it is Katrina,
and I am the French Quarter.
Horrors
flooding corridors
and filtering through urine soaked floors;
a whirlpool of recklessness.
Higher ground like – excuses.
Refusing to leave,
I am the native of New Orleans –
who is standing on the rooftop,
waiting on a miracle,
waiting on a rainbow,
always WAITING for things to dry out.
Maybe everything comes undone
and maybe good love is never good enough
and maybe a rainbow is just refracted light –
bent through a tear drop
suspended in the sky.
and maybe good love is never good enough
and maybe a rainbow is just refracted light –
bent through a tear drop
suspended in the sky.
And maybe even years after things become dry …
the jazz trumpet halts in the French Quarter
because New Orleans will always hold her breath when there’s thunder.
whether we can weather the rain.