Waiting for the Pentecost

A strange blend of eroticism and spirituality.

Waiting for the Pentecost

there is nothing sadder than the persistent scent of your fading attar.
the sheets, no longer so warm and pampered by your frame, sorrowed.
but not as downcast as I am, clutching aroma'd memories to a scar
where once was a heart, fiercely pierced and glad to bleed unborrowed
emotions, potions imbibed in subtle sips not just to sample, but to prove
the leisure of the treasured pleasure to be measured in infinities.
a resurrection perhaps to be as prophesied in your eyes, to move
me to the transfigured instant of passion and purpose, or to disease
a soul already spread thin on wings of wax and stolen feathers.
as I am frail, so is the sun an inconstant lover, comfort in winter
and the furnace of the crucible of doubt in summer's span, never
more than less than welcomed according to the need of the lover.
and I have trusted skies too deeply to not regard the rose's kiss a true
friend before evidence of thorns is regarded in accepting the legacy of you.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.