the well of life is love without fear

if tomorrow is forever then what memories will come today?
do we dare our dreams to demand from us our souls in lieu
of our flesh in storied rhythms that hide the knives we keep in play
while awaiting the judgement of our histories that have, anew,
answered the questions we will torment ourselves with in reticence
to judge ourselves guilty, fealty being tested as we bested
the beasts of our own intellects, driven to the precipice, stance
of a dancer, taking chances on knees that bend as requested
but groan at the totality of our conceit. feet slapping time
with the heartbeat held in hands that only see the blood, running fresh
to test the seal between our fingers as we linger over crime
committed for which we will not be acquitted in the failed flesh.
we are but shadow dancers in the failing light of love we hold
in hands too small to raise a needed drink to parched lips, sweet and cold.


William F. Devault. all rights reserved.

An elder poem, brought to mind by a recent reader.