For S.

A mystery piece here. He does not discuss, in any of his writings, who "S" is...and is not forthcoming on the topic when asked. There's a darkness to this work, written in the mid-90's, just before the whole Panther Affair.

For S.

cracked and battered escarpments of my heart,
running crimson and gold with blood and amber
from my faulted, vaulted passions. rodents clamber
up the thorny roses grown on that decay. part
predator. part prey. part symbiote and parasite.
grandiose and pathetic. the warm wine runs away,
spilled by careless hands and hearts, every day.
I pluck cithara strings to wake the flower of night.
I play for you the melodies.
I pray for you the memories.
I cry for you the threnodies.
and barter still the remedies.
cold and wasted thoughts I would know no more,
a monument to lovers' kiss and merg'd minds.
as Odysseus bore the stick that finally blinds
the sleeping giant. barren bones and paramour.
epic tales of love and lies and truths unflown.
love: an addiction and a venom I use and sell.
thumbscrewed to the walls in my dungeon cell.
murmuring mad words and dreams outgrown.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.