children of the pain

where music rises in the gloaming layers of dreams
pricked like indifferent balloons, fates sealed,
we are voices that spin the webwords of emotions
oft left by the side of the road, like a dejected suitor,
denied the promised land but defiant to the end.
the road is not always well-lit and the ill-fit of our shoes
makes it even longer for those of us seeking redemption
in one last kiss, one last hit or miss proposition
that we would not sell in a shell game of lame excuses
for the follies of our fantasies. dark things hide
in shadows yet to be cast and in the past we cringe,
sometimes, at the memories that tomorrow suckles from.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.