blaspheme

cold carotids leak little or nothing,
our pulses fading to blue
then grey
and we are so involved in our deaths
even the forgotten joi
tastes wet

set upon our paths by others' evils
we make cat's cradles of webs
left back
so that we can tell ourselves the lies
we take as our sustenance
and prey


William F. DeVault.  all rights reserved.

final sunday

I am cast out.
orphaned.
left for dead by the side of a wide road
so that others can swerve
to miss my fading form.
nothing warm
comes from this.
another legacy of ashes
left on my tongue
the taste of dung
and vinegar
from an apple orchard
I had once considered
a sanctuary.

the colding feat.
I am incomplete
and competing for sustenance
is not in my nature.
I will drag myself
into the dark
that I may not offend
those for whom
pain
is too intimate.
and I will find
myself.  unbroken
once I fit
all the pieces.

drinking stagnation.
the hunger unabated.
but I will bind my wounds.
plant fists to earth and roar.
sore in a thousand places.
it is good you do not
have to see me like this,
the tattered, battered man,
the orphan of Aphrodite.
but I will not change
my coat of arms.
I will still be a priest to your divinity.
and I will love you
every time I feel my hollow soul.

William F. DeVault.  all rights reserved.

en exil

Dans ma solitude, la nuit douce
sensation de froid et amer
comme le vin chaud gaspillé.
Un goût simple refusé
comme la pierre précieuse ne voit pas la lumière
et la beauté est perdue.
En exil, en contemplant
les ventres froids
et des promesses creuses.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.

barefoot in the snow

I dreamt of you
walking barefoot in the snow
a sign of purity and faith
solidarity and sacrifice.
it was beautiful.
not as beautiful as you
but it told me things
I could not see with open eyes.
your footprints
endured in the cold night
when I needed a symbol.
even one as simple
as footprints in the snow.


William F. Devault.  all rights reserved.

White Sunday 320: lost at a cost

moments run like sand between fingers
too gnarled with age
too unpracticed in the sphere of Venus
tests of will and wonder
time will tell anyone who listens
what became of them
and whether the pronoun
needs capitalized
or even explained
Orpheus draws deep breath
taught to him in another aeon
to stir couer rage like memories
not yet made
but possible
if you can rise above
the ruins of a Babylon
where the costs of certainty
included ignorance
and the music is perfect


William F. DeVault.  all rights reserved.

White Sunday 314: witness

your light persists, even though bent a bit

by the refracting forces of history and mystery.
passions like a thousand fires on the face of the sun,
you run light and bright into the night, immortal.
I am but an observer, your witness to the world
that might otherwise rest dull and dumb, uninspired
by ignorance of the fires that dance across your skin.
you are, by any measure, remarkable, perfect padparadscha
regardless of the wit and wisdom of those who see
and do not comprehend your worth and wonder.
you are memory and prophecy, beauty and truth,
the one I have waited for, and will wait for,
even until the end of all things. all things.
for you asked me to wait, to linger, to learn patience
that I might be there when you whisper my name.

William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.