Quasi Una Fantasia

(I wrote this while listening to Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata, hence the title. My first attempt at the villanelle form of poetry.)

 

When sleeping eyes open but are not awake, and rove as if in a living dream,

Wakefulness I drown in reverie’s waters, let me float on this lost stream,

It almost is true, this world I see, almost a fantasy.

 

Beauty like a cliff’s edge, to stand and peer or to plunge into its teasing, tempting abyss?

In an endless pursuit of fleeting moments, in a vain grab at a passing moonbeam,

When sleeping eyes open but are not awake, and rove as if in a living dream.

 

Those that stay, soon pale, while that which eludes enslaves my mind in an eternal reminisce,

Music enchanting only because it will cease, stars lovely only when they are a distant gleam,

It almost is true, this world I see, almost a fantasy.

 

Beauty in chains bound to that which must die, is there not something amiss?

What is truth and what is a lie, born to fade in a blink of an eye, like a wandering moonbeam,

When sleeping eyes open but are not awake, and rove as if in a living dream.

 

Dance and fight till you wrinkle and wither, and these eyes close with death’s kiss,

And their light snuffed out as the reaper comes, his pledge to redeem,

It almost is true, this world I see, almost a fantasy.

 

To set free the phantasm that in my form haunts this shadow land, in a moribund sigh of bliss,

Or smite down and to dust consign, neither rhyme nor reason, as if I were a senseless moonbeam,

When sleeping eyes open but are not awake, and rove as if in a living dream,

It almost is true, this world I see, almost a fantasy.

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