Oh God, It’s Morning—A Villanelle

My words are novenas all wrapped up in lines:

From barroom brawls, her mouth bursting with broken pens,

Harbored every now and again—Oh God, its morning

 

Without you here, the barriers shielded in vines,

Alas, brought conviction to carry on; rollups and sins

My words are novenas all wrapped up in lines

 

See my weeping? She knows—it’s bitter but kind,

To be sun-burnt upholstery like newly seared skin,

Embraced to a chin—Oh God, its morning

 

There is skill, I know, to care so but not mind;

It’s the silent contour of polished glass—a lens

My words are novenas wrapped up in lines

 

Shredded heart, per chance, you might guise and find;

With or without it, my bed pieces will fend

over one remote bed—Oh God, its morning

 

In the throes of a noble drunk—a boring, bitch-whine,

Printed on skin, on napkins, if only to pretend

my words are novenas wrapped up in lines.

Too late, Sweet Muse of mine—it’s already morning.

 

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