My First Villanelle Poem by Michael King

There's nothing here that fortune cannot tell;
Channels running red with blood of gold,
pleasure mounting high, the ringing smell.

Never riding tall through strait or dell;
Rush throughout the day to grope and hold,
there's nothing here that fortune cannot tell.

Hold here aloft the sight of crooning bells;
The graveyard sings its halted voice so bold,
pleasure mounting high, the ringing smell.

Spying here the corpses, grey and fell;
The tombstones languish high, so bitter old,
there's nothing here that fortune cannot tell.

Folklore rises here from scouts of hell;
Rotten are the fists that reek of cold,
pleasure mounting high, the ringing smell.

There is naught here my body would not sell.
The bones they gather, my carcass has been sold.
There's nothing here that fortune cannot tell.
Pleasure mounting high, the ringing smell.