Awaking to the Sound of Distant Trumpets

My friend, the poet, is running emotionally threadbare (I think the spiritual environments he has allowed himself to travel over the last decade or so is are taking their toll, what man walks into Hell and lingers for so long without a few burns on the soles of his feet?), and thus I think this a most relevant choice for today's poem.

Awaking to the Sound of Distant Trumpets

accept me for what I am.
living proof of the dichotomy of life
of thought
of soul
of God.
sacred and profane,
containing a riddle to be answered
after the game is played.
I have, more than once, strayed
from wisdom.
more than twice,
from peace.
and more than thrice
have denied more than a Messiah.
I have denied myself.

we will know the answers one day,
if we are fortunate and our anthromorphic projections
of the nature of divine intellect
are more than just the feeble scribblings
of frightened children
wanting to think there is a Father in the hall
to cap the monsters in our souls' closets.
for we know they are real...
and we feel...
overwhelmed.

there is a desire to find the design
in the eddies in the wine of blood
transformed into love,
as we transform our passions into something noble...
if only in our vague illusions.
there is a need to find sustenance
in the crust of converted bread,
fed to shed our guilt.
our reasons wilt against the yeast released
to ferment the gluten of our transgressions.

so this is the valley of the shadow of death.
I have seen worse.
I have seen flawed hearts failing
and desperate liars railing
and lost souls sailing for a horizon invisible
and ill-advised.
but our pride propels us to the brink.
and we stare into the throat of time,
Tequila bottle worms going down.
swallowed whole because the universe
doesn't really like our taste or texture.

but in the belly of the beast,
when all is lost.
that is when we feed on the fifth stuff.
and, because we dared to fail. to fall. to live. to die.
we achieve divinity.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.

And yes, I have asked him about the word "anthromorphc" in this, about whether that is a typo for "anthropomorphic". He said it was an intentional shortening of the word, to provide the same meaning and purpose but to make it fit more smoothly and "come to the lips" easier. Ah, the joy of being a poet.