playing the hard Abelard in the game of hearts

I.

I fold, cold, cards rough to my fingers.
the bitter and brittle fear rising like vomit
in my throat, coating me in a mist of mysteries.
histories echoing with every doubt, case out.
road kill in the still morning air, food for fortune.
instinct blinking out with final thready heartbeats.

II.

at a distance puppets dance mad and sad,
our taint restrains tensions tested to wrest
incidental assumptions now made mad
as they burrow deeper to at length best
well-wrought defense, made of memories won
in games of chance with cards cut from our flesh
to bear barter for hearts in grimmest fun
mocking our marks, wagers we can refresh
from the seeming endless Tantalus purses
we hide, inside, to bide time for the tell
presumed in eyes that lie out of curses
ancient as an holy scripture, God’s spell
cast in castrations of divinity
as we take hemlock from necessity.

III.

the shadows dance because the fire does
and so do we
and our chaotic nature does not permit us
vision of all elements at once
so we play the dunce
understanding that control is an illusion

IIII.

the lion holds his wrath
because, somehow, he feels
that it is not the antelope’s fault
that it was born without claws
or jaws enough to make a worthy prey

V.

the Apollonian balance blanches at the excesses
of demons chained and near starved in old stone.
encrypted like the black words they spit
in a tongue I alone know the Rosetta stone.
hard and near permanent, illuminated
scripture to a mad God’s religion, sacrifices
proving only desperation and not worthiness.
I spit blood then split atoms, then start again,
the formula for the ritual not yet perfected.

VI.

the invitation is given.
no one accepts.
the temple is emptied
and the cycle begins again.
the religion is in the teachings.
but a God without worshippers
will slowly fade to legend.
then, into nothingness.

VII.

upon fresh stones and the attar of roses
I contemplate my cithara
then seek a new pluck of the strings
to bring perhaps a new magic
a summoning of something new
something
something less uncertain
still, in my stubbornness
refusing to surrender to doubt
in the eventual outcome
the elegance of sacrifice
the beauty of love
in a world of fragile, shattered prayers


William F. DeVault.  all rights reserved.