I started this poem the week before spring break while taking notes in American Political Systems. I was trying to write a villanelle, because I had just taken my poetry test and everything. This is not a villanelle--there is no set meter, and my rhyme scheme turns into bba when it should be aba. I could probably fix it if I had the desire, but I kind of like it the way it is. As an almost-villanelle.
I guess not horrible for my first attempt at writing one.
Shovel in hand, he dug a round hole
and as the sun set, with his head bent,
he lowered himself in search of his soul.
He looked overhead as the stars went
wrapped in the sky around soil, bent
in a circumference much like a hand-dug hole.
So awesome in midst of constellations leant
to a man taming land, though he was bent
on taming his sin and forsaking his soul.
In the midst of a galaxy, he made not a dent.
Realizing this, his shoulders fell, bent
as an inferior man, sunk in a hole.
A tear leaked through, as though it was meant
to quench his deep thirst, spirit still bent
on searching the heavens to find his lost soul.
And the stars came down to kiss him, bent
low enough to whisper that they gave consent
to leave his dead body and climb from the hole
for he, at long last, had discovered his soul.