Drunken Woman’s Villanelle

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The moments passing through here can’t be caught
they struggle like a trout avoids the platter,
I’ve bottled them, but still they tend to rot

and make a mess, then turn to afterthoughts.
I’ve lost them through the years, they seem to scatter,
the moments passing through here can’t be caught

when stretched like rubber bands they are too taut.
Ridiculous, it seems and somewhat sadder,
I’ve bottled them, but still they tend to rot.

When digging through to find those I forgot,
the trick is just to cover loss with chatter.
The moments passing through here can’t be caught

regrettably, nor can the joy be brought
again to me with memories in tatters;
I’ve bottled them, but still they tend to rot.

I orbit round the past, an astronaut,
and ask myself, repeating, whats the matter?
The moments passing through here can’t be caught,
I’ve bottled them, but still they tend to rot.

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