shroud

you are the shroud I shall be wrapped in
when my time is passed to speak for myself
and my words are twisted in wormspeak
for future generations to puzzle over.
"did he really love her," they will ask
and I will have no way of replying
to correct misunderstandings caused,
as oft as naught, by your words and actions,
the shroud about my decaying legacy.

oh, to be spoken of in truth and not puffs
of pale smoke and pink meringue memories
that lay upon sheets long discarded to fade
like serenades of a lost love, echoing
only in the ears of those who heard them,
raw and true and through the bedroom walls
where we spoke them in inarticulate wonder.
I am bound for dust and ash and curiosities
that can never be resolved, even by death.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.