The days tick by, the world grows cold.
I miss your touch, I mourn your smile.
I wait to die, and all the while,
by petty circumstance controlled,
the treasures that the heart enfolds
slip soft away; what's left is bile.
The days tick by; the world grows cold.
I miss your touch; I mourn your smile.
Those memories that once were gold
lie tarnished now, a dusty pile
of snapshots in some long-dead style.
Unwelcome stories, poorly told,
the days tick by. The world grows cold.
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| Writing Prompt |
Rondel
A French form consisting of 13 lines: two quatrains and a quintet, rhyming as follows: ABba abAB abbaA. The capital letters are the refrains, or repeats.
Example:
A Rondel for Margarita
On the carousel, on a summer's day,
As the rest of the fairground goes gliding by,
We coast together, now low, now high,
But how quickly the moment slips away.
She laughs at the music, elfin and fey,
She laughs for joy at the sapphire sky,
On the carousel, on a summer's day,
As the rest of the fairground goes gliding by.
How sweet her delight in simple play,
Someday, without me, she'll take to the sky,
Brave little fledgling, ready to fly.
We must hold these moments while we may
On the carousel, on a summer's day.
Copyright © 2004 Gail Kavanagh |
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