White Sunday VI

a revelation perhaps given before the moon rises.
too soon for the civilization to wrap its soul around.
inconvenience in a thunder clap from out of everywhere.
truth surprises and tantalizes at times most inopportune
but bearing kairos over chronos, time enough for riddles
told in a practiced measure. the rituals of passion
stripped of the sacrament of true spirituality.
flesh to bread. blood to wine. a sense of the divine
in the taste of the sacrifice, given willingly.
cold stone idols and the shadow of the sun passes
into another night, where the chill fill us with doubt
we smother in platitudes and quotations. poster logic
without an understanding of the words, the whimsy,
the amomancy of the brave, slave to nothing,
but bound to speak of small words, sighed and undenied,
inscriptions on warm flesh, to be kissed, drawing out.
water from stone. wine from water. blood from wine.
and the cycle closes with a prayer shared between lovers
and the belief that they have found faith in the night.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.