When I'm sad, I like to write. And right now, my heart is still in need of recovery. Tell me what you think of the poem I wrote up. It's a villanelle (that's the name of the form)
Her Last Farewell
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But still the record cries its song,
Trailing off into muted surrender.
I will not miss it, when you’re gone.
Steeped in silence, a pregnant, long
Breath swallows those words spoken then in haste.
But still the record cries its song.
The darkness overtakes the dawn -
As unchecked void blots out the sun, she thinks
I will not miss it. When you’re gone,
The broken clock cannot prolong
The time. Against its demise it struggles,
But still the record cries its song.
Bruised and broken, her lips drawn tight,
Her weathered soul bids him its last farewell:
I will not miss it when you’re gone.
Grey eyes follow the path along
The gravel as the figure finally fades,
But still the record cries its song
You will not miss it when I'm gone.
When I'm sad, I like to write. And right now, my heart is still in need of recovery. Tell me what you think of the poem I wrote up. It's a villanelle (that's the name of the form)