rise

A plea to a former lover to awaken to the reality, both dangerous and beautiful, of her situation and embrace the possibilities of her life. Or, maybe, written to himself, perhaps?

rise

rise, dreaming, from the ashes
envisioning futures cut in gashes
from the ruddy walls of faded memory
made a prison of the amory
where once we lay, playful lovers
lost in the costless sins of passion.

rise, gleaming, from the ashes
quicksilver pouring from stored caches
of life and beauty, a rainbow of greys
playing on a wall of sacred sappphires, sprays
of baby's breath and black roses
chosen for their meaning, not their beauty.

rise, steaming, from the ashes
a pinch of light and a saline flash
merging into a purging potion of healing,
sending you crashing in crested waves of feeling
that you had peeled, congealed, sealed and concealed
like mulberry jam against an infinite winter's cold.

rise. rise. rise, damn you, rise.

rise. screaming. from the ashes.
asecendent precedent for a flametongue's lash
to part skies and lies and thighs and try as I might
I can see no further than this event horizon, night
as a beacon for the flight from photic silence,
the violence of the cold stone of mortality.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.

Yep, the man can write. And write it right.