Tim Seibles
RUNAWAY BLUES VILLANELLE
Maybe we could all just fly away
Time will say nothing, but I told you so
Not sure what else time can really say
Not sure I wanna write this anyway
Woke up feelin like I jus don’ know
Maybe we could all just walk away
No use runnin hot and yellin all damn day
Mom told me No one monkey stops the show
Guess she didn’t know what else to say
Maybe I should put my mind on layaway
Can’t turn it off—can’t tell where it’ll go
Think I might just turn away
Summa y’all go to church and pray
I look at the sky— I just don’ know
Maybe we should all just run away
Gotta try somethin, come what might may
When that goes wrong, they’ll shrug I told you so
Ain’t that some worthless shit to say
People worry ‘bout who’s straight, who’s gay:
The body’s the arrow, the heart’s the bow
Someday we’ll all just fly away
When I go, just let Omar Sosa play
Then rock’a my soul at a Funkadelic show
You give me half a chance, I’d get away
When you think about it, same thing time would say
This is such a unique variation of the form, giving it extra stanzas, and the variation works quite well, given the subject matter
This poem hits like someone speaking from the edge of a long, tired day.
There’s a kind of worn‑out honesty in the way he keeps circling the idea of running away, as if escape were the only thought that still feels true.
You can almost hear the sigh between the lines, that quiet “I don’t know anymore” that we rarely admit out loud.
The mother’s saying, the churchgoers, the sky — they show up like familiar scenery, but none of it really helps him steady himself.
And then that line about the body being the arrow and the heart the bow… it lands softly, but it stays.
It feels like he’s trying to understand his own impulses while the world keeps tugging at him from every side.
Music becomes the one place where he imagines breathing without effort, where life feels less heavy.
The poem never pretends to solve anything — it just lets the confusion sit there, unashamed.
By the end, he’s not running; he’s simply admitting he wants to, and that honesty feels strangely tender.
It’s the kind of truth you only share when you’re too tired to pretend you’re fine.