in the hall of mirrors: two

flesh can touch the cool, smooth surface,
leaving behind trace oils as the spoils of a war
between the solid and the lights that subtly
reveal what our minds conceal in misapprehension.
a suspension of belief, a grief more voluptuous
than any kiss that hissed with fork'd tongue
to draw out of the drowned frog the stinger stung
out of a necessary allegory. a story for wisdom.
but is wisdom only in the hollows of regret
in the hallows of the sweat that met its match
in the thatch of a burning cottage in a dream
themed to the hall of mirrors we live within,
our skin captured in the light that we might be
more than naked and less than reflected perspectives.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.