Villanelle; The Dead

The Dead

The dead shall rise again. The dead shall rise.
Out of the sea they come, covered in flesh.
They are astounded at their newborn eyes.

Will these bones live? Nothing can sanitize
The worm within the shroud around the dress.
The dead shall rise again. The dead shall rise

Not wiser for their absence, mouthing lies
They lived and breathed, lying as they confess.
They are astounded at their newborn eyes.

Christ said, “Come as a child.” No disguise
Can save them from the dreaded second death.
The dead shall rise again. The dead shall rise.

They must submit. There is no compromise.
It’s them or God, and they are in excess.
They are astounded at their newborn eyes.

The sun sets on the dead. By moonrise
Most are dead again in God’s winepress.
The dead shall rise again. The dead shall rise
And be astounded at their newborn eyes.


I continue to be dull in my mind but my emotions are marginally better. Unlike my normal self, I have little to say. I trust it's the medication that's doing this, flattening my affect, taking some of the noise inside my head away. One good sign is a return of sexual interest, something I have sorely lacked these last eight months. But I have been fooled before, thinking I was on the road to recovery, so I won't invest too much time in considering if I am better. At least I am no worse.

I will continue to labor at poetic forms. Thanks for all the feedback. I am not currently rating my mood because the microscopic attention I pay it may be bad for my mental health.


Thine,

CE