in the hall of mirrors: nineteen

colours you are. so are we all.
shapeshifts in shadows, predating the fall.
before words became barter for thoughts in our head,
colours were regent and, proclaiming, they said
what was needed to cross the feral, dead space
between heart and heart. between face and face.

levels of lambence. angles of light
mean nothing to the silver that heralds the night
as a filigree worn with nothing besides
when lovers embrace and prayers coincide.

in the hall of mirrors I am yet lost,
praying the threnodies, paying the cost
of my own insurrections against purpose and faith.
a shadow. an angel. an mongrel. a wraith.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.