Up in Smoke

Hey guys, here are two different versions of the same Sestina.  Which one do you think is better?  I'm interested to hear what you think.  Feel free to leave a comment.

Up in Smoke (Version 1)

Like the spear of some crumbling Grecian phalanx the cold

pen is held in his hand over pages that seem almost wet

with the wasted words of an hour’s worth of writing beside the fire.

As always, he faces that moment when the well runs dry

and those treacherous muses cease to sing their obliging music

and they fall, like so many leaves on the autumn lawn, irreverently silent.

Except for the crack within the iron hearth and his heartbeat, all is silent

in this house where every happy memory is a hallucination.  The cold

of the mahogany wood flooring against his feet makes his nerves tingle with music

as he rises and heads for the kitchen.  The emptiness left by the muses has wet

his appetite.  His skin feels chalky, as if his blood has been pumped, leaving him dry

and all his thoughts turn to the boss who came to him that morning looking for someone to fire.

As he returns to the study with an empty glass full of water, his eyes dance with the fire

and the idea comes to him, whispering in out of the omnipresent darkness, silent.

It is simple, elegant, a magnum opus that is sure to immortalize him like an otherwise dry

career has not, be it the business one he lost or the writing one that has remained eternally cold.

It is autumn, he recalls, and the air is crisp.  There has been no rain for weeks to make the house wet.

His writing is a failure and the need for it his undying tormentor.  But for him there shall yet be music.

He climbs the stairs and peeks through the door that creaks.  The music

rising from the bed, her constant breathing, reminds him of the fire

of their budding love begun nearly seven years past.  Tears make his eyes wet

as he realizes he cannot do this without her.  As he tip toes away he is silent

knowing that, were she awake, her words would be like a wind of bitter cold

snuffing out the flames of his truest inspiration.  His mouth quickly becomes dry

with expectation as he heads for the garage.  Never one to let his gas tank run dry

he has kept a supply of gasoline in bright orange cans behind his crates of music,

vinyl records collected over forty years of life.  Out here, they know only the cold

that awaits things forgotten and unable, by their nature, to adapt in the roaring fire

of life’s cauldron.  He works through the house for the next hour, sagacious in his silent

arrangements.  He covers couches, floors, and writing – oh, the writing! – until it is all wet.

Then, there is only the before.  The infinite and finite moment when the air seems wet

with the anticipation and the awareness of what must inevitably come next.  Dry

match meets soaked life, drenched dreams, so that  the air will no longer be silent

but erupt into a phantasmagoric display, multifarious with its ethereal music.

And even then, the splendour of it all begins to feel like too much for him.  But all fire,

the great red flower, is always more appealing to us, the frozen, who live the life of the cold.

So, onto the irrevocably wet floor he lets the match plummet to conduct the music

and the well that seemed to defeat him when dry now serves as the pit for the metamorphic fire

and his immortality is achieved in the silent smoke that rises, amalgamating all, out of the cold.

Up in Smoke (Version 2)

Except for the crack within the iron hearth and his heartbeat, all is silent

in this house where every happy memory is a hallucination.  The cold

of the mahogany wood flooring makes his nerves tingle with music

as he rises and heads for the kitchen.  The emptiness left by the muses has whet

his appetite.  His skin feels chalky, as if his blood has been pumped, leaving him dry

and all his thoughts turn to the boss who came to him that morning looking for someone to fire.

Now he is just another member of the unemployed.  There is no fire

strong enough to overcome the bitter ice that clogs his veins.  Silent

as the full moon that hangs like a misplaced eyeball in the sky, he finds dry

food stocked within his fridge.  He finds small comfort in the cold

air that laps against his meaty face and that distinct background thrum of music

only a fridge can make.  He grasps the water jug and feels wet

droplets of condensation break against his palm.  The pages on his desk are almost wet

with words but he tries not to think about them.  No doubt he’ll commit them to the fire

once he’s read them over.  The words are never good enough.  If there is an ethereal music

guiding great writers to their finest works then for him it has remained silent.

Like the spear of some crumbling Grecian phalanx, the pen sits dead and cold

in his hand, bringing him nothing.  He is empty and his well has remained perpetually dry.

And he begins to ask himself, what is the point?  His life has been nothing but a dry

leaf on the sidewalk, continuously crushed beneath the shoes of those passing.  Wet

laughter first filled the halls in high school then later in the office break room.  Cold

and indifferent stares.  Whispers:  Freak, loser.  They say cruelty ends after the fire

of high school, but it doesn’t.  It just recedes.  Becomes subtler.  Learns to work in silent

ways.  He remembers the history classes he loved, the way dates and ancient customs were like music

he couldn’t get out of his head.  Prometheus, bringing fire to mankind, Apollo, God of Music,

and also the God of the Sun.  He delved into the myths, loving the fantasy.  There were also dry

laughs from girls he’d fooled himself into asking out.  They would always laugh, laugh.  Silent

stares of horror were almost worse.  But not quite.  At least they felt bad.  Wet

spit balls getting stuck in his hair, swirlies to wash them out, the story circulating like wild fire.

Now, years later, he pours until he has a glass full of water but a house empty and cold.

And then the idea comes to him.  It whispers out of the omnipresent darkness like a cold

breath against his skin.  His hairs stand on end.  He may feel like a failed writer but there shall be music

for him, he realizes.  He steps back into the study and his eyes alight on the dancing fire.

It is simple, rooted in history, a magnum opus that is sure to immortalize him like an otherwise dry

career has not. It is autumn.  There has been no rain for weeks to make the house wet.

It will kindle nicely.  And he will be one with the phantasmagoric display.  Then he will laugh.  Silent

and sagacious, he goes about making the floors wet until they are ready for the music

and the well that was dry will now serves as the pit for the metamorphic fire

and he achieves immortality through immolation; all is silent as he puts an end to the cold.