in the hall of mirrors: sixteen

my eyes can close against all but the most furious light
as I hide the truth from myself, partitioning the pain
that I might be better able to manage it in the night
when you are not there. like a random crack you remain
in the hall of mirrors, replicated by an illusion
you laid upon me like an unexpected kiss, I was unprepared,
and when the light bent and your intentions made our fusion
inescapable, even as I was trying to surface. not scared,
but perhaps a bit apprehensive, as the lines all seemed
like words spoken by broken crockery idols long ago
when I was not as wise as I should be now, when I dreamed
of love not as it is, but as it should be, could be, though
I still believe that the right light burns perfect in the night
and all I must do is find the angle that facilitates sight.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.