White Sunday 149: bleed

burn me, turn me into what you most need, I bleed.
the seed, the need, the greed to be the deed you own
as part and consummation, no hesitation, freed
of the doubts of self-preservation, the seed sown
to grow in row upon perfect row, glass roses
shattered for what has mattered more than only skin.
measure me as the pleasure treasure that dozes
in fitful catalepsy until we begin
and cease marking time until the horizon fades
and we are enraptured, captured in the pure act
of satisfying earnest hungers, promenades
of twinned consummations, consumed, doomed in the fact
that we are all mortal and we scream our release,
defiance of shared, paired breath that will one day cease.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.