in the hall of mirrors: eighteen

my words are light, but are laced with sorrow
and gravitas. the arc of lightning white
and so intense that bones burn to marrow
then are cast again, as long as life, bright
and beggaring, persists to resist dark
desperations, a hungry virgin's kiss,
placed as trap and temptation in the stark
realm of the simplest of conundrums, this
barter with a starving mantichore, chained
by will alone until each bone is bleached
and the last trace of life leeched unrestrained
by the mercy of a jealous god, preached.
in the hall of mirrors, in an ancient tongue,
Aphrodite mocks amomancies sung.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.