shard and shroud

I wet each shard of shattered souls and touch them
softly
together
that they may merge and mend and heal and feel
the return of life and light

all the while knowing that I am forging a shroud
to wear
to my grave
when the grey returns to burn away the kisses
and I am carried back to the cold black box
that was made for my containment


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.

The poet is burning black today. That's his phrase for it.