White Sunday XII

Nothing good can come of this.
Nothing good at all.
I feel you pierce my shadowed bliss.
Now in my sunken hall.
You've overrun the battlements
where I had made my stand.
And now cut deep inside my stones
I'd marked with sacred brand.
You're everywhere at once, and yet,
you dance, you dance away.
You've toppled walls in sacred halls,
you drive my thoughts astray.
And what would you, my conqueror,
demand to ransom back
my sanity, my vanity,
my soul on which you snack?
Benign malevolence you are
and beautiful, beside.
You've broken my defenses, token,
and in my heart, abide.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.

The poet as the conquered of the muse.