in the hall of mirrors: fifteen

hoarse whispers through dried lips.
tongue, stung more than once by kisses
made of clay and dung and hung, eclipses
of the solemn romanticism the poet misses
like the sweetness of fresh berries in January.
here he lays, in the hall of mirrors, trapped
by the very tapestry of all he could see
but never saw behind the woven walls slapped
over the cold stone truths containing misery
and madness, blessed like poisoned sacrament.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.