silent Sundays

struck enough, the crystal cracks and we are so fascinated
by the light that sparkles off the man-made flaws. we forget
and stand too close. the brisant report of the facets' fail
and we are showered with the razor splinters of our folly.
jolly good fun to the observers. but there is still a pulse,
deep within the core of this frame and I am not one given
to more than an acknowledgement of difficulties. blood and pain
are not reason or season to turn tail and run to the horizon.
battered, yes. bruised, yes. but even when the tethers slip
my grip on the headboard where you bound me with a promise...
remains. hurry home.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.