the forgotten religions

the forgotten religions are not a mystery to me
for the histories wear well in the tapestries of threads
that do not burn or cut or fray as days turn to years.

the forgotten religions are arcane only to the ignorant
and those who suppose too much to know that which is unknowable,
the secrets whispered in blistering heats and cooling kisses.

the forgotten religions are not forgotten, merely ignored
by those who do not see the resonance of each footstep and tear, wept
then swept away by the hands of time and crime and forces sublime.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.

I have loved

I have loved little compared to how I
should have loved; unconditionally when
that which is best in me conquered nature
and I thought for less of myself than those
for whom my heart quick-tripped and skipped behind,
finding a peace, a joy, and a purpose
in the weaving of the amomancies
that might win me a look, a kiss, a night
that would inspire the memories that life
demands if we are to believe in love.
And, for all the idols of clay and blooms
that proved naught but mythos and corruption,
I am content that I have loved, as well
and as earnestly as mortals should dare.



William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.

aureate

I will not find what I am looking for, here amoung the shadowdancers and sunbathers.
hearts aureate swim to the horizons, or climb cliffs to seek their destinies in moments frozen
as they arc their breathless forms out and away from the rocks of despair, to slice the air
in a dart that acknowledges life is best tasted at terminal velocity, striking the glass sea
that mirrors not for long the double speed descent as hopeful and hopeless romantics
dare to live and love and share and dream and fly and fall and rise and bend and rule
a domain of the senses. seven, at my last count. mounting the sandstone pedestals
left by the spittle of God against the eroding sanctuaries of our immutable malleability.
and when we break the surface tension of our own pretensions, we ride the shockwaves
like perilous nightmares to the foothills of the precipice, practicing the perfecting pain
that shall stain our legacies, whether we hide from it or not, caught on ourselves to coin effigies
in words that make mockery of the currency of our barter. seven sins forgiven. the eighth
breaking the seal of blissful arrogance. and the water slips past your form as your momentum
conquers the buoyancy of swimmers in the sea of life and the force of your entry takes you deep.
past where the children sleep. into the depths where the sun of forced gaiety does not penetrate.
towards the oblivion of knowledge. for the tree of life is a seaweed now, a fruit that floats on limbs
thin with the wear of age and memory. and with every dive, a little closer to fingers split and bloody
with the violence of the splitting of the aqueous walls seen only as a looking glass by those
for whom life is too deep to fathom, too dark to see, too cold to warm, too true to trust.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.

Considered by many as one of my most eloquent works, it speak in ways to me that I cannot explain. Written at a time of isolation and introspection. Forgive the line wrap, but I will not tamper with the length of the lines, for they are part of the picture.

cast

would you cast me as an idol
to be held as heartless stone?
would you cast me as a pebble
to skip across the gentle wave?
would you cast me into darkness
that my sins I might atone?
would you cast me as your lover
my dreams and prayers to save?


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.

welt

bulletproof
I seek the truth
or maybe I am lost
I don't the cost
of all I've crossed
but I know why I'm here

the cursed verse
paints my universe
in shades of red and gold
currencies bought and sold
with memories never old
trapped in every tender kiss and tear


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.