White Sunday V

you are a lantern to my soul,
lambent to my touch. your surrender
awakens me to make sacrifice
after sacrifice, pieces of myself
given as evidence of a new communion.
the old idols fade and crumble
into piles of dust and sand.
nothing can stand the test of time
but that which is willing to wait.
wait until the time for idols is passed
and we cast ourselves in images
of our true selves, severed from lies
that we even tell to the mirror
to make clearer the falsehoods
we feed upon. I have no need of riddles.
the religion of ronins is patience
and the desire to see things as they are.
I should like to see you naked,
with nothing between us but hope.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.

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