White Sunday 147: claims

I may claim you but never tame you, I am yours.
yours to use as you choose, to refuse what you will
and even to kill with an unkind word, the course
of fragile hearts, tempered adamantine but still
under sway of the kiss of the alchemist who
poured the cinnabar and jet, fashioning man
out of inorganic matter, the blood you drew
with the red heart of a fallen star that once ran
across the sky with the omens of love and death.
awake me to break me, to take me into you
as friend and lover and servant with ancient breath
and patient touch of guiding hands, feral and true
as you speak incantations you wrote upon me,
binding me, finding in me your epiphany.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.