Horizon to Horizon

A self-exploration poem. He writes these and, more often than not, discards them. The poet views these, or so he has said, as merely bleeds, leechings of his emotional energy that help keep him sane, and of little or no consequence. But if you read them, you find the man at the bottom of the well, bellowing his secrets and his dreams.

Horizon to Horizon

Fingers slide across the wet clay, playing God to inanimate matter.
The sweat of the earth, afterbirth to the creation,
left to us, left to crust, left to dust that will blow away
in winds that have not yet even found conception.

The salt flat mats the sweat of flesh that runs its course,
porous chorus of the silent hills, watching and waiting,
remembering nothing that does not leave bones to mark
a path that was taken in good faith, and folly.

Cherish or perish. Love or be consumed by the void
where even God does not turn a face to, dark beyond dark,
the hollow that follows the unclean sheen of thoughts
left, bereft of wisdom or mercy or even the dreams of the damned.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.