in the hall of mirrors: twenty and one

in the hall of mirrors, there are no answers.
just repetition, the sedition of self-doubt,
shouted with the fury of a coward who ensures
no one thinks him the less for running out
on a promise, by making so much noise that all
remark on it, mistaking clamour and glamour
for substance and the holy fury of a call
to real battle, real conflict, worthy paramour
in the bed of a real fealty to a higher purpose.
the courtly love of a mythology tested and tasted,
ultimately found true and placed into the service
of a ronin on a road where victory is never wasted,
for it feeds the heart of the truer lions, sure,
the newer scions of an ageless remmbrance, trouvare.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.