White Sunday 30

You beg the trespass, steal the crown.
Lips of peaches, ripened to red,
you dare to wear the crimson gown.
To draw out venom from your bed,
power claimed in the pleasured art.
Now courtesan and queen, priestess,
couer rage born in a battered heart.
And paramour, the idols press
and are shattered in your embrace.
Wondering when and where you've gone,
Helen stares into empty space.
The unexpected quarter, on
past the Pillars of Hercules.
Our fires burn in four degrees.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.