White Sunday III

roll away the stone. the stone that seals just one perspective.
for while the flesh is bound by walls and time, I’ve slipped free
to be a thing of light and quanta, bouncing through the ether
to both send and be a message, in and of myself, as such.
much to relate and yet can anyone relate to the inexplicable
except where a touch or glance communicates subtler truths
than all the hand-wringing head-shaking games when we must
filter reality through the lying layers of the necessity of survival.
the soothsayers and naysayers and game players protest.
too much. hiding from the hidden. forbidden mockeries spilt
like a glass of Pesach wine, long forgotten but the stain remains
for the celebrants to discover years from now, contemplating
what it is and what it means and if blood is really that red.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.