the road beyond damascus

the road goes on.
on beyond your furthest dream.
on beyond the horizon.
stretching out in all directions
with intersections dark and bright.

bits of bone and brass mix with dust
that rises with every footstep
to choke the sun from the track
I leave behind for the blind
to follow with fingertip probity.

the road goes on and on,
so long already, hands unsteady
seek a pillow rock to lay against.
the present, tense, becomes memory
and the martyr'd hearts did their part

do not walk with me. do not.
for my stride is long and my goal is far
and you will fall by the way, cursing yourself
and nursing a bruised ego for daring
to rise above the grey, if only for a kiss

I will speak of you in the distant cities
places where pity becomes compassion
and we fashion idols from cloth and clay
when we play like lovers. but only pantomime.
for the road beyond damascus is hard.

feet taking me far and fast until at last
some city hears that they were my last bed.
and that somewhere on the road I fell.
and another dancer picks up their load
and starts walking on the road beyond damascus.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.

this is the finale from Evangelist. I just wrote it, it has what it needs, it has truth and hope and cynicism and determination. Tomorrow morning, early, I will lay it down.