White Sunday VIIII

like an ancient elder serpent god
avatar of a darker spirit
slithering up from out of shadows
scale on cool stone, voice like the winds
passing through the drying grass
where once grew trees of life and light.

like a darker priestess, summoning,
waiting for the red and black to melt
and run together like blood and night
the knife left buried, deep and silent,
the violent path to penetrate a heart
no longer of value as you evolve

like fire in the depths of an ancient fen
where no one claims the spark that set
the moss and dead twigs to crackle
like the cackle of creatures in the black.
like the taste of lips and lilacs, warm,
the promise of a ritual of ragged passion


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.

9? 9?