The Spaniard

I challenge my fear of isolation,
feed my solitude down dark Roman alleys
where neon Parlor signs glow ghostly
upon empty patio tables.
Leaning against a cold wall of bricks,
I watch people come and go
until foreign chatter ebbs to silence.
Resonating in the calm
comes a summoning in undertones.
Sandaled feet plant themselves
into the path I most feared taking.
At the base of the Spanish Steps,
where sidewalk merchants sell gypsy trinkets,
red roses twirl in the hands
of American blonds waiting to be kissed
by dark strangers.
Six dashing young Italians, each strumming a guitar,
play Californication to summer dress Venuses.
I descend back into silence,
unnoticed by the self-engaged crowd,
stopped by the black haired gypsy of white roses.
As I pause, I see the Spaniard.
His eyes are as dark as the Roman alleys,
they penetrate the protective light of neon Parlor signs.
His spirit whispers down obscure paths that beckon me.
Companion of solitude, my dark comrade,
our souls speak across the distance of humanity.
Now, in the sheath of my isolation echoes
the music of his silence,
where I challenged the fear of solitude.

– Intuitive Ginger

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