Sunday, 23 September 2018

A villanelle

My coat, the hanger of the day,
collar turned against the knife of night,
upon a neon-rained and plodding way.

I find myself weeping; for needs must say,
was i right? Was i right?
How it dogs my steps this torrid day.

I look for the broken ray 
that held us fast in love’s bite;
now gone, far angst is strewn this way.

Deranged, and regaling to all who may,
or who would listen, yet some take fright,
at my flailing, wailing day.

 And my plea that would this night devour nay
 all that ever crawled back towards the light
 from down-town’s midnight dark and lonely way.

I ache for many a morning gay,
that should n’er have seen this blight,
sinking down along the day,
to be laid upon an ocean’s teary way.

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