Refrains ahoy!
I don’t know why, but I seem to have this strange and unhealthy fascination for villanelles recently. (<digression>Unhealthy because they rhyme. Rhyme is bad! Very bad! Like… eh, forget it. Rhyme is fine, I guess. </digression>) Which means you all get to read them. Lucky you.
Villanelle Redux, Redux
The crimson of lips and rose petals seem
strangely warm, like breath, like light,
piercing the awful gray of urbanity.
Perhaps the color rises like cream,
like blood to the skin’s sight,
the crimson of lips and rose petals seem
The flush of cheeks. Breath hasty
in the thought that this sensuality might
pierce the awful gray of urbanity.
The darkness, clearly not a dream,
awake, yet surreal; this night
the crimson of lips and rose petals seem
Preternaturally alive, shimmering: key
in that this fantasy’s flight
pierces the awful gray of urbanity.
In this desire I am burned clean
as if by Ceres. A consecration, a rite:
the crimson of lips and rose petals seem
to pierce the awful gray of urbanity.