the mantra of severing

One person on the planet should know what this poem means, besides me. It is with grief and relief that I report it to the universe.

the mantra of severing

the jasmine blooms in silent rooms.
the scent, meant to stir senses wasted,
meals tasted then discarded without nourishment.
en couer rage meant, spent in fickle coin.
heads to flip and fall and all we call
is the silence, the venom of a violence.

do I dare to speak the mantra of severing?

three words, cured like flesh in the sun,
promises undone and forever reinterpreted
to mean until the first cool wind spills
from the walls of the mountains, fallen.
they are a whisper to me now, like the name
of Gods I do not wish to summon, for I know the odds.

do I dare to speak the mantra of severing?

say them, I say. three times and break the chains
I hammered for myself in hungry illusion.
the flesh is still black with the smithing.
the mercy is as a mirror, truth and glass,
something more than a passing fancy.
and I bow my head. and weep as I say them.

as a prayer, I speak the mantra of severing.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.