The Final Dream of a Well-Slept Night

A curious title, yes? A rumination on what little power we have over the subject of our dreams, wants, desires, lusts. The poet is a practitioner of lucid dreaming: A result of both years of practice and a hypnotherapy side-effect.

But he admits that the heart wants what it wants and all he can do is control the details, not the course or the source.

The Final Dream of a Well-Slept Night

Where the graverobbers have laid spade and mattock,
uncovered is the way of spirits trapped in the underworld
of their own design to rise to skies denied too long
to sing song of rage of heart and parted passions, rejoined.

The flask shatters and the genius of countless millennia keens
a waking wail and plumes out and away, penetrating air
with flesh and sinew and a soul hammered on the
primordial forges of Gods who Knew the measure of love.

Tragedies and tapestries, hung as boudoir backgrounds
as the spirit rises to caress and possess you, filling you
to the limit of eager fantasies that failed to find your ken.
And all the colours cooled and flavours forgotten, flee.

Layer after infinite layer of wings of angels, bright and dark,
enfold you and all is transcendent to the lie you steal
in the moment you seal this consummated emotion, waking
to find it not a reverie. But the price of my passion.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.