solitaire with a suicide king

paul simon said
"an island never cries"
and I know he was right
because they don't let lies
into poetry and the fight
to wait until you're dead

to be alone is as universal
as anything I can imagine.
the memory of pale skin
the instinct to touch, again,
even an illusion of a sin
that leaves us hollow and full.

full of a hunger unknown
just moments before, when the illusion
of being perfect in our solitude
was still our premise and we'd begun
to accept ourselves, as we could exclude
the failings for which we'd atone.

I am not a rock.
for I feel the serpent's coils
as they crush the life from me.
I feel the echoes of every lie's soils
upon me and by me and can see
the bloody stone that waits to mock.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.