in the hall of mirrors: one

lay back and tack against the light.
the night is upon us, like rain in an open field
where you must flee or yield, yield to it.
solemnitude barters for part of the prize,
but lies play their caltrop bag of tricks
and the pinked pads limp away, another day
will come and somehow someone will find a way
around the intricate barriers we say are
beyond us, but we know the better, the truth,
that we are just frightened of anything
as dark as the night, as warm as the light,
as harsh as the points, as ripe as our fears
and the blind grinding wheel mills tears
from the eyes of the lovers that can never
show their faces in the hall of mirrors.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.