etude in infrared and ultraviolet

Sometimes, the words speak for themselves.

etude in infrared and ultraviolet

There is nothing like solitude. Nothing.

It is the echo of thought, caught in its own backwash,
burning with the denials that you'd hoped to hear.

But if silence is violence, the echo is worse,
a curse from an indifferent universe.

And then, the fire.
Atoms torn apart and the heart bursts in flames
that once were hung on other names,
now focused in an coherent heat.
Sweet. Redshifting blue and true
and though you know the symptoms
you cannot know the disease
that pleases and teases and finally releases
you to tumble in three axes.

Vectors Hectoring hexes undone
and analyzed with the eye of a jeweler.
Midwifed lives with a familiar scent
that went with something softer once.

I have stood in the fire.
Endured it and been cured by it
until my flesh curled and hurled it out
to only find it falling back into my gravity well,
too far from other suns
to ever relinquish or extinguish.

Flames with a fury transcendent and unrepentant.

Solid to liquid to gas to plasma
to that which remains with the furnace cools
a thousand lives from now.

With no more answers than there were today.
Quests test the best in us.

There is nothing like solitude. Nothing.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.