of a past lover

she was more than her triumphs
less than her falls
more than the memory that comes when she calls
to tell you a nothing that you're happy to hear
for what she shares of her life to you is so dear
that it seems revelation
and a gift from a prayer
to think that she'd think to think of you there
in her distant white city
of stones she has laid
as an eternal ruin to a passed serenade


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.