My second attempt at a villanelle.
Reluctantly, I Turned from Death’s Wooden Door
Reluctantly, I turned from death’s wooden door,
Convicted to leave; willing to start afresh,
Only to realise that I was no more.
In heartbreak and tears, rage, anger, and furore
Spent, thus died the energy for remembrance -
So I wearily turned from death’s wooden door.
Yet, I found myself an apple without core
As some part of me remains buried with you.
Just as you left me, I made myself no more.
You have become a type of legend or lore;
Historical tragedy in human form -
Despite my leaving you at death’s wooden door.
Now in your memory, lost forevermore,
Am I to endlessly re-enact my loss.
You live in my poetry, mine own no more.
Through the pages of my tender self you tore;
Reborn I may now be, but not as before.
As long as you rest behind death’s wooden door,
She necessarily (oh woe!) is no more.
