penance

The poet was 19 when he wrote this. Nineteen. I was trying to figure out how to tell Bud from Bud Lite.

penance

against the odds
against the gods forced on us
by friend or foe, we fight.
beyond mere will,
where weapons kill more than
just flesh, slaying truth and light.

we have been cast, as tumbling dice,
amidst the mortals who repel us...
who would sell us for a smile
from cold idols carved of ice.
we have fallen. and have risen.
and taken penance given, every mile.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.

The poet's vigil continues.