Seventh One
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One never knows which words will be your own –
Those voices once as much like yours as mine
Or like those lives which don't work out, get thrown.
My name's become to you a noise unknown,
Invention of an imbecile's design –
One never knows which words will be your own.
One either breaks the skin or cuts the bone –
The songs we once composed may still combine
Or like those lives which don't work out, get thrown.
Obscure motifs, a crushed rosetta stone,
Quaint angles tricked from cigarette and wine –
One never knows which words will be your own.
The garden we once slept in's overgrown.
Should we again our beds have intertwine
Or like those lives which don't work out, get thrown?
Screw this shit! I can't do it alone –
Without your lips, my whispers misalign.
One never knows which words will be your own
Or like those lives which don't work out, get thrown.
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I like how this villanelle is composed based on two lines from the second stanza of your Sonnet 1.
And how although you repeat your lines verbatim, they take on an entirely new life here, like how a part taken out of one machine can be used in a different machine for a new purpose, or how a lonely soul can find a new friend.
And how through the repetition you link one poem to the other, as I’ve seen you do with so many of your poems, with so many of them that I have sometimes wondered whether you somehow link every single one of yours together with each other, as well as linking some or maybe all of them with the poems of your friend. Linking with your friend. Like your poems are holding hands, keeping any of them from falling to the fate of words or lives that get thrown. If we all did that more often, holding each other’s hand instead of fabricating worst assumptions to set us apart, maybe no lives would ever get thrown and maybe all words would remain our own.