The Tick

Little grips the blood, with fear, like idled hands.

What slips across the face, iced as shadows...

Gloved, with most benign of custom, and demands

the Governess, sweeping wayward curl, that lands

...Frozen for a moment, upon arched brows...

Little grips the blood with fear, like idled hands.

Devil may care, for these hot and shifting sands

that course, and burn, human fingers and toes;

Failing to hold firm The Count's countless demands.

Oh juggler, you, of minuets and grandstands!

When all applause ends, and our rest follows...

"Little," grips the blood with fear, like idled hands.

Don't speak of Evil, or a bird in the hands!

Empty of work, or wistful candle blows...

of Figurative... or Literal... demands.

Just a tot, inside, taking part, between bands.

Inadequacy, behind the glass, shows:

Little grips the blood with fear... like idled hands

...as Grand Father tolls, Mother's fatal demands.

05.29.2024

Villanelle Challenge @CKMunsell