The Melancholy Way
The melancholy way she twists her tresses.
Brilliantly, seductively blond; forever mad.
The pallor of her face, her wail expresses.
Off and on her rocker, the specter confesses,
But excuses the way she murdered the lad.
The melancholy way she twists her tresses —
It’s clearly the mirror, she addresses.
“In the end,” she says, “he was just a cad.”
The pallor of her face, her wail expresses.
Prince Charming wasn’t happy with her excesses.
She is clever - wants the mirror to think she’s sad.
The melancholy way she twists her tresses.
Sixteen, what a bombshell - her curve progresses,
draws lust, in her heyday before her present, bad.
The pallor of her face, her wail expresses.
“No one tells me what to do!” she stresses.
Unlike her Victorian gowns, her anger’s not a fad.
The melancholy way she twists her tresses.
The pallor of her face, her wail expresses.
10/31/2022
THIRD-PERSON VILLANELLE
L. Milton Hankins
Copyright © Kim Rodrigues | Year Posted 2022
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