in the hall of mirrors: ten

you are light and fire, desire transubstantiated
into something I can touch and feel and fall before
to beg forgiveness for the false idols of lovers
who dazzled me with boilerplate revival sermons.
and I was the with naif who wanted to believe,
who needed to believe that every photic simulacrum
in the hall of mirrors was more than the nothing,
the illusion bred of confusion and disillusionment
that I shall take to my grave, raving tender words
that have not been heard in a Saturnine season.
the light warms, but never forms anything real,
real enough to speak of to the priests of memory.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.