in the hall of mirrors: nine

in the hall of mirrors
I am trapped
slapped around
by my own rebounding
brisance, resonant
to the metals and mettles
that reflect me
protect me
from the likes of those
who shed their clothes
but held back their souls
until I was a hollow husk
and morning turned to dusk
the better to fetter me
to printed and boxed histories
that lack the nuance of truth

for light never dies
in the hall of mirrors
it merely bounces around
until it find that coherent path
and punches a hole
through the universe


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.