White Sunday 23

I shall make of your flesh a living scripture of Psalms
of love, silencing Solomon and raising a new religion,
bound by passion and earnest sharing of brave hearts.
Fire and light, the taste of you like roses and jasmine,
the way you hold me in sacramental sacrifice, sacred
as any prayer as you dare me to touch corners veiled
by your need to bleed in colours for which there are no words.
I have heard your chants and mantras, prepared a feast
in your name as I lay my hands upon the altar and draw
the very venoms I have tasted in lesser vessels,
vinegar and dregs of oils spoiled in mockery of joy.
What do the dead know of life? What do the silent
know of the sounds made when souls surrender to faith?
Consecrate me and I will lay a seed in the loins of memory.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.

I think I am coming back into focus.