A Villanelle for Haiti- From a poetry challenge
A chorus of mourning, sung in refrain
as from the bowels came the shaking.
In Pandora's wake, would hope remain?
Buildings buckling beneath the strain
of the land's furious quaking.
A chorus of mourning, sung in refrain
Streets splitting like a single vein,
ruptured open for the taking
In Pandora's wake, would hope remain?
Cries fell upon the wind in vain
through the night, their echoes snaking
A chorus of mourning, sung in refrain
Fear blanketing the shattered terrain
left crippled from the forsaking
In Pandora's wake, would hope remain?
Rivers of tears raged on as rain
from hearts slowly breaking
A chorus of mourning, sung in refrain
In Pandora's wake, would hope remain?
Earthquake Weather
She picks at fights
as if they were scabs;
fingers, cuticle-deep into wounds
never healed,
pulling at the strings he keeps submerged
amongst the beats
of a tell-tale heart.
The puppet master,
she knows how to
make him dance,
this siren's song
echoing the melodies of his
insecurities.
You see,
she prefers to keep him
on his knees,
lost in her hall of broken mirrors,
crawling across shards of glass
just to reach her.
A tightrope dance,
she keeps him
hanging precariously
from threads of her spindle,
spinning webs to embed him into
the fabric of her hands,
while weaving paths to leave him
if need be.
You see,
she picks at fights
as if they were scabs,
fingers digging into the faults
along his skin;
keeps him
on the edge of shaken up
and giving in.
Because in her world,
stability is a pretty myth
and she learned long ago
that fairy tales
just don't exist.
She picks at fights
as if they were scabs;
fingers, cuticle-deep into wounds
never healed,
pulling at the strings he keeps submerged
amongst the beats
of a tell-tale heart.
The puppet master,
she knows how to
make him dance,
this siren's song
echoing the melodies of his
insecurities.
You see,
she prefers to keep him
on his knees,
lost in her hall of broken mirrors,
crawling across shards of glass
just to reach her.
A tightrope dance,
she keeps him
hanging precariously
from threads of her spindle,
spinning webs to embed him into
the fabric of her hands,
while weaving paths to leave him
if need be.
You see,
she picks at fights
as if they were scabs,
fingers digging into the faults
along his skin;
keeps him
on the edge of shaken up
and giving in.
Because in her world,
stability is a pretty myth
and she learned long ago
that fairy tales
just don't exist.
- i be miss.abi
- reppin houston, United States
- the full info
