Beneath Paris, the tunnels breathe.
Skulls form walls like old masonry.
The air smells like mud and tastes like time.
A handmaiden in a dark robe.
A lonely guide who’s footsteps echo
But, who’s footprints never left behind.
No one sees her face.
Only the back of her hood.
Only the slow drift of cloth.
See the bones arranged for her.
As if the dead stopped talking.
Awaiting her approval.
Ceilings glow with rusted fire.
A circle like buried sunrise.
She passes under it untouched.
Hear tourists laugh.
Then, their voices thinned out.
Silence overtook the group; the cold grip took hold.
Her skulls look polished.
As if kissed by unseen lips.
Her handiwork.
Deep inside, there is a circle in stone.
A black mouth rimmed with faint gold.
A hole that is not a tunnel.
She stands beside it patiently.
Not guarding, not warning.
Only waiting like a servant at a door.
If you follow her, you will not return.
You will never love sunlight the same.
Footsteps without footprints; you shall not be alone.
