The Gilt Clad Night

I wonder why she cries in the darkness?
The night has nothing to hide from the day.
I believe she has no sin to confess.

Emotions she works so hard to suppress
emerge in the sunshine to have their say.
I wonder why she cries in the darkness?

With song and laughter she will sunshine bless
Then darken with the light fading away.
I believe she has no sin to confess.

I ponder on the source of her distress
How can I pull her from this path I pray?
I wonder why she cries in the darkness?

I dare not with my concerned questions press.
Embarrassed, she will frightened shrink away.
I believe she has no sin to confess.

To this dichotomy I will acquiesce,
of nighttime tears, sharing laughter by day.
I wonder why she cries in the darkness?
I believe she has no sin to confess.

It was a poem Asocial by Dorla Moorehouse - http://dorlamoorehouse.blogspot.com - that launched this effort. Did I ever know what a villanelle is? Maybe. Somewhere back in my sex, drugs and rock and roll addled late 1960s, early 1970s. English Lit classes, T.S. Eliot, it HAD to have come up. Back then, however, it was content I worshipped – form was unimportant, restricting, confining – free the verse was my rallying cry. e.e. cummings was my hero for disdaining capitalization (I have tons of his books).

I’m not sure about this little effort. I do know it did not come easily. Kept me up late last night. I’m not sure I’m saying what I mean to say and the picture, portrait if you will, that is in my mind is not as clear to me in the words here as I think I would like. The flow is awkward, almost Hemmingwayesque (is that a word?). there is a staccato dissonance to the “I believe she has no sin to confess.” This was one of the toughest ‘word puzzles’ I’ve attempted yet. For good or ill, here it is.