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December Cygnet: A Tale in Villanelle (1 Viewer)

Darkkin

WF Veterans
Pressing Skin


Skin pressing skin, dance upon eggshells, delicate ice.
Soul touching sole, stretched, wearing critically thin.
One fall, again, marks twice. Damn fool; trying thrice.

Tchaikovsky’s cygnet in crumpled tulle, pride the price
for the chance, that thrice damned to begin once again.
Skin pressing skin, dance upon eggshells, delicate ice.

Svelte in indigo gloam, head high, those lines concise.
Soul speaking through soles that cling, a second skin.
One fall, again, marks twice. Damn fool; trying thrice.

Grey down drifting, that lowly cygnet in steps precise,
twirling amid burgeoning snow, a light waking within.
Skin pressing skin, dance upon eggshells, delicate ice.

Tide rising; fireflies and hoar lilies, blossom and entice,
beckoning to the wary cygnet; a journey about to begin.
One fall, again, marks twice. Damn fool; trying thrice.

It was a dance to the voice of sweet, white edelweiss,
Tchaikovsky’s cygnet, determination writ toes to chin.
Skin pressing skin, dance upon eggshells, delicate ice.
One fall, again, marks twice. Damn fool; trying thrice.



A Dance of Down and Ashes

Amid the hoar lilies, the firefly light—a cygnet silver bright.
Obsidian eyes watched beside a thistle faded, seeds swirling.
Skin pressing skin, Tchaikovsky’s cygnet—a delicate fight.

It was that something, ember consumed by ash, about to ignite.
Soles gripping, through snow and cinders, reality was blurring.
Amid the hoar lilies, the firefly light—a cygnet silver bright.

A dance of the flowers, wither away, taken by creeping night.
Fog, tendrils smoke and pearl and grey, from a wood, curling.
Skin pressing skin, Tchaikovsky’s cygnet—a delicate fight.

Ash, dense, too long cold, billowing about the cygnet’s flight,
consuming the gloam as smoke was pluming, dark unfurling.
Amid the hoar lilies, the firefly light—a cygnet silver bright.

Gathering pitch, terror blooming as a voice calls: Lily Bright!
Take my hand, hold tight! Ashes and down, dance—twirling.
Skin pressing skin, Tchaikovsky’s cygnet—a delicate fight.

Tchaikovsky’s cygnet, Lily Bright took his hand in her right.
A boy, hair and eyes sooted, pulled her close, ashes whirling.
Amid the hoar lilies, the firefly light—a cygnet silver bright.
Skin pressing skin, Tchaikovsky’s cygnet—a delicate fight.


Billows of Ash

Three, Yule Fae long strayed, cygnets in the hand fate had played.
Ash coated deep, a smothering crown, bathing skin, hair and down.
By dance, design a path unwinding at the feet of the cygnets laid.

Billows of ash plumed high, Tchaikovsky’s cygnet dimmed, greyed.
Eyes speaking, hair as pale, frail as the December sunlight’s crown.
Three, Yule Fae long strayed, cygnets in the hand fate had played.

She knew not how, not why, yet she knew them, names once prayed.
Joy, Hope, and Charity in a torrent of ash, colourless, fading, bound.
By dance, design a path unwinding at the feet of the cygnets laid.

That grey cygnet, by name Lily Bright, into the Strangeways strayed.
The boy, tipped in soot, stood watching her, brow rumpled in a frown.
Three, Yule Fae long strayed, cygnets in the hand fate had played.

Black to her white, dark to her light, betwixt the tides, truce parlayed.
Lily was the key to set them free, so knew he, young Phoenix Downe.
By dance, design a path unwinding at the feet of the cygnets laid.

She looked at the Three, skin pressing skin, he reached fingers splayed.
Westward leading, the path proceeding, billows of ash rising to drown.
Three, Yule Fae long strayed, cygnets in the hand fate had played.
By dance, design a path unwinding at the feet of the cygnets laid.
 

PiP

Staff member
Co-Owner
Darkkin, you make crafting complex poetry appear so simple!

I particlulary liked

Skin pressing skin, dance upon eggshells, delicate ice.
Soul touching sole, stretched, wearing critically thin.
One fall, again, marks twice. Damn fool; trying thrice.
 

Darkkin

WF Veterans
Darkkin, you make crafting complex poetry appear so simple!

I particlulary liked

Skin pressing skin, dance upon eggshells, delicate ice.
Soul touching sole, stretched, wearing critically thin.
One fall, again, marks twice. Damn fool; trying thrice.

In reality, villanelle is incredibly simple. Once you know the pattern, it is like playing in C or F on the piano. Learn it and it transposes into a sundry of other classic forms. Like the Four Chord Song by the Axis of Awesome...Anyone looking to tune their rhyming skills should take a chance with the form because it does demand an attention to detail that can be tedious, but is often worth the effort because it teaches consistency and conscious writing.
 
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