amomancy one

(adagio)
call back the worms. they are inelegant in this setting,
whetting only my sense of the absurd, word transcends
rock, paper or scissors, lasting longer than any artifice
of the hand of man. I can lays scars that will never heal
but seal you in, cold cataleptic to your own presumptions.
puddles are not ponds are not oceans are not worlds.

(vivace)
worlds. hurled from suns long black and stacked
to the heavens still do not reach even the sky where I,
and I alone, watch with unflagging amusement.
the others have wandered away, bored by the triviality
of what you would barter with and for, a crop of desolation.

(andante)
desolation is but the tabula rasa of the natural order.
a clean slate, grated down to the dust by forces
that course even still, in a distant land, to return
when the call for them is given. a resurrection
in the cycle of death, taken in positivity if benchmark
if made at the high tide of hope and love and dreams.

(allegro, con fuoco)
dreams? we are all of the flesh. souls soar, sail, fall and fail
but we are all inheritors of the frailty and powers.
flowers rise to our will, and are trampled by our vices,
lovers learn new lessons and definitions that tomorrow
will make the yesterdays a troubling embarrassment.
but we must not step back from the edge, the ledge
where our hearts call us to emulate God Himself
in unconditional passions and forgiveness, judging
as we would be judged, dreaming as we would be dreamt,
and written of in a way that in millenia yet to come
there will be those who read our epitaphs and smile.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.