sonnet: the nightmares

in the shadow of dreams we find our kind
reduced in our numbers to the few swift,
swift, cunning enough to take what we find,
making of it what is needed, a gift
to our nightmares, ebon coursers that race
to bring us to the brink of a madness,
madness that is unforgiving the grace
of our own best desires, the fires that bless
us and all with echoes of a worthy
leap, falls and faults and the failures that sting,
sting us in lingering bitter surety
that we have seen the sun, now receding,
but yet never conceding our soft prayers,
angels of light to conquer the nightmares.


William F. Devault. all rights reserved.

passion, sepia

Those of you who visit my works often know the name of Mariya Andriychuk aka Lady Martist, my Ukrainian muse and friend who is a gifted photographer, graphic artist and model. Recently she posted one of her latest efforts, a sepia toned semi-nude self-portrait entitled "passion, sepia" and I wrote a poem in response to it, then asked her if I might use the photo on my blog, alongside the poem. Her response was, as always, positive and enthusiastic. So, here they are, the vision and the words inspired thereby.


the look in eyes
where passion reigns
and the pain of hollow hours
is shattered by a touch that extends into all corners,
born of flesh,
borne on spirit
and burned into my memory
by the merest thought of you,
hot with hunger and desire,
a goddess of fire
made avatar for the worship of her.
a religion of needs,
bleeding as sacrament
from one into another
until there is no more solitude.
your passion
makes me want to live forever.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.

at dawn

shall I rise at dawn to find you gone?
promises left like footprints in sand,
washed and blown away by rain and wind?

shall I rise at dawn to find you gone?
mysteries becoming histories of lovers
hovering between the revelation and sin?

shall I rise at dawn to find you gone?
leaving a legacy of words and whispers
that blister flesh and heart and prayers?

shall I rise at dawn to find you gone?
not in the flesh, but in your heart, drifting
like a mist on wet moss, following the wind?

shall I rise at dawn to find you gone?
your limbs, cold and stiff, life fled
to another sphere, no longer near enough to touch?

shall I rise at dawn to find you gone?
perhaps. but it is better than the cruelty
of allowing you to wake to your own lamentations.


William F. DeVault

rough and sharp

broken,
the shards discarded
like so much useless memory.
edges, rough and sharp
that cut the butter churned
from earnest cream of dreams,
broken,
splinters littering
the grounds like druidic landmines.
barbed treacheries of pine and birch
that wait without consciousness
or conscience for vulnerable skin,
broken.


William F. Devault. all rights removed.

one more day without you

One more day without you
and the sun dries my tears,
the night is torment and torture,
the sheets mocking me with memory.

One more day without you
and I live outside of time,
straddling yesterday and tomorrow,
places where you dwell for now.

One more day without you
and I shall fold my hopes
and all the promises you made
and trust you from necessity.


William F. DeVault. All rights reserved.