shiny, shiny things

waking up to more than the violence of silence,
the rude solitude of a bed half empty
(or half full, if that is your take on it).
not that a bed makes up for everything said or unsaid
this side of the fence, pensive pretense a pence
in the cornucopia of hope and heresy.
do you really know what you want, what haunts you,
taunts you, flaunts itself before you like new knowledge
you could not capture in college or a collage of memories
of degrees of earnest learning? turning base metal
into shiny, shiny things and the linking rings
of a trick of the night and the light within,
lambent and hypergolic, for that is the nature of passion.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.