The Seventh Song

so bitter lies my wormwood soul
deserved of contempt and of wrath.
the pain and stain of failed control,
reserved for heaven, hellions laugh.
for what is man if not his best,
and what are dreams if not to shape
with gnarled hands and hearts we attest
the moment's kiss, the decade's rape.
the towers fall and we cannot climb
higher than the lowest stone that fell.
our wings have not winds, e'en sublime,
to lift us up and mock this Hell.
for patience pales and curdles black
within our souls, we can't look back.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.

This has been a remarkable year, full of joy and pain. I am just worn down by it and will probably not be writing for a bit. Joy eludes me and I do not wish to be that person.