It is the pain, it is the pain endures.
Your chemic beauty burned my muscles through.
Poise of my hands reminded me of yours.
What later purge from this deep toxin cures?
What kindness now could the old salve renew?
It is the pain, it is the pain endures.
The infection slept (custom or changes inures)
And when pain's secondary phase was due
Poise of my hands reminded me of yours.
How safe I felt, whom memory assures,
Rich that your grace safely by heart I knew.
Pain has its own routine, its own phases. There are changes from one phase to another (hence why there’s a distinction between phases), but pain has its own predictable, rote, predictable course to run. 
 It’s inevitable to draw the comparison with the poem’s form – rigid, predictable, patterned, consistent, repetitive. Yet it is all about change. The villanelle captures the essence of pain in that it displays a paradox of coexisting change and constancy.
Villanelle It is the pain...