White Sunday X

The prison is inside, we hide our hearts
that none may break them. Pretty venoms spit,
hit their mark, but we are strong for our parts
and bind ourselves in bright rags that are split
only for pretense, we are not naive
to the purposes of tender tensions,
but we choose to guard that which we believe
essential, saving pretty pretensions
for the kiss and coit of those we can drain
for our nourishment and inspiration.
Leaving not death, but life and light, the pain
sucked in the instant of immolation.
I draw from you a flood of blood, a feast,
I share with you a thousand beasts, released.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.

10...and this one a sonnet. I see a serious cliff-dive in progress.