Main Event

(villanelle)

Descending grace: not dove, but tiger’s surge,
Such strength would snap my bones, regale my flow.
But not with death’s ensue, but life’s emerge.

So cry our Kyrie no funeral dirge,
As fingers strain and gorge’s press bestow,
Descending grace: not dove, but tiger’s surge.

Still with our strive and confront ways' converge,
That in the strike, your parry - our tempo,
But not with death’s ensue, but life’s emerge.

Your down drive muscled tack, my hardened verge,
With streams of struggle’s grip, its sopping glow,
Descending grace: not dove, but tiger’s surge.

How deep’s attack begins in limb's upsurge,
Your defense tight, recoils the coming blow,
But not with death’s ensue, but life’s emerge.

In sunder clash and thunder’s crush diverge,
Downed by our contest, our deluge o’erflow,
Descending grace: not dove, but tiger’s surge,
But not with death’s ensue, but life’s emerge.