Going to pieces

Below is another poem of reflection on Jen's death. It's a villanelle, a tight poetic structure than has only two rhymes, and has repetition of two key lines. So it's difficult to get it 'right', to find strong lines and natural rhymes. It's only the second one I've ever written, and it goes back almost a year (which says something about how little time I find to write poetry). It's a powerful form when it works - think of Dylan Thomas's 'Do Not Go Gentle Into that Good Night'. I've opted to use a form of the villanelle with variations in the key lines. You the reader will have to judge whether this one works.

Going to pieces

The day you left the world stopped making sense.
The mist concealed the river's nearer shore.
What's left is memory's faulty eloquence.

This entrance to the past is a pretence.
A pool of tears has swept us from the door.
The day you left our lives stopped making sense.

Your words and gestures have no permanence.
We cannot summon echoes anymore.
What's left is memory's fading eloquence.

Here are the jumbled relics of remembrance:
a ring, a cross,a card, some hats you wore.
The day you died the house stopped making sense.

The matching half of our experience
is lost - the moments we alone both saw.
What's left is memory's fractured eloquence.

The one who is the centre of events
Can join your fragments back and heal your flaws.
The day he died it started making sense.
What's gained is memory's faithful eloquence.