listen to the chains groan

Cry "Havoc" and let slip the gods of love,
glove wrapped, tapped to their essence,
a presence of menace and memory, mad
with desire of an ambiguous focus, crocus
in a field of fireflowers, Spring's a bitch.

I am bound by my own defenses, pretenses
that shield and do not yield to a sealed sentiment.
Bent and rusted, they hold in cold links
that sink mighty Atlantis beneath waters
in which bathe the daughters of desire.

Listen as I snarl my defiance at the bindings,
unwinding thread by thread for I am not dead
and no one said I would sleep forever,
bound by these grounding chains of pain and stain
that even now realize their folly as I contemplate you.

The metal feels my limbs as they heat, sweet blood
flooding my every, every extremity. The golem
sets himself against the taut anchors and the Earth
itself must tremble as I test the durability of regret.
I reach for a kiss or more and the links scream surrender.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.