Villanelle: reunion in another sphere

A thirst, sated. Lovers, fated by memory, a sacred song
chanted, not recanted in hearts earnest and pure, where prayers belong
and we are left bereft of joy to suffer for the moment's kiss.

An impure surety eclipses doubts, shouted in ancient bliss.
A prodigal heart, parted like a prophet's path, dreams reminisce.
A thirst, sated. Lovers, fated by memory, a sacred song.

Ritualistic mysticism heals the schism of pain long
forgotten and forgiven in thoughts driven stark and strong,
and we are left bereft of joy to suffer for the moment's kiss.

Robes of a priest, released to the water's purification, this
the symbology of a faith older than God and man's abyss.
A thirst, sated. Lovers, fated by memory, a sacred song

Transfigured desires, disfigured toxicity we prolong
in our quests and tests, flaying and lashing ourselves with tongue and thong.
And we are left bereft of joy to suffer for the moment's kiss.

All that remains are stains we do not recall the source of, the wrong
persists, but from deprivations we conspire, forgiveness remiss.
A thirst, sated. Lovers, fated by memory, a sacred song.
And we are left bereft of joy to suffer for the moment's kiss.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.

It has been a while since last I wrote a villanelle. I needed the exercise.