This hour's a dream where even stars decay:
reflections in the inkstains of the age,
an echo of eternity at play.
Upon each season's tide the game's aplay,
and in our pride against the flow we'd rage;
this hour's a dream where even stars decay.
In youth reflected butterflies display,
a fluttering of wings within each cage,
an echo of eternity at play.
What if the song of beauty words relay,
weaves painted forms upon an empty stage:
this hour's a dream where even stars decay.
The surface ages, words and meanings stray
the diary of our form defined, each page
an echo of eternity at play.
And yet, the grand illusion, time's astray;
a broken clock to pay the cradle's wage:
this hour's a dream where even stars decay,
an echo of eternity at play.
A contest entry
- Villanelles, sonnets and pantoums only by ecrivain01.
450 points, ended April 23, 2008, 24 entries
Honorable mention
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Please tell me what you think
Comments
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A beautifully composed villanelle which has moved me into philosophical mode this dreamy morning.
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This is very interesting, musing on time and age is itself timeless. I'm pretty sure you need an apostrophe in "Upon each seasons tide". The villanelle form is used very well, best of luck.
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hi margaret, you were right - the curse of the missing apostrophe struck again:-)
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Very nice ...
and very nicely done.
Thanks for entering.
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