A Villanelle
the ticking of the clock leaves me behind.
though i pretend that i no longer care,
the syntax of her love still kills my mind.
alone, i wish she’d once again be kind.
since time has failed to dull my long despair,
the ticking of the clock leaves me behind.
parentheses of kisses soon did find
a way to hold my life between each pair.
The syntax of her love still kills my mind.
another hour into my past has chimed,
and though i try to loosen pain’s cold stare,
the ticking of the clock leaves me behind.
our too-short love a lengthy thread did wind:
one sentence in a novel isn’t fair;
the syntax of her love still kills my mind.
the days and weeks have not my sorrow timed
or dulled my inner death to help me bear.
the ticking of the clock leaves me behind.
the syntax of her love still kills my mind.
