corners

Some corners
are bleaker than others.
Dark.  Given to despair.
But not when lit
by your presence.
Or the memory of you
having passed by,
in proof of a loving God.


hairspray

I hate it when you pile your hair high,
like a haystack.  Golden in the sun,
but stiff to the touch.
Better to let it lay soft upon bare shoulders
and play at maiden modesty,
in hands' reach.


Risen from the ashes

Once, I was a Nobleman.  Given to principles and purposes
as oft as not made mock of by those who could not, would not understand
that there are higher things in life than a full belly or brimming pockets,
or one more notch on a sad sentinel headboard.

And then, I fell.  Luminous and epic, driven to the brink to sink
from the purity of the ether into the friction fire of an immolative descent
that does not ennoble, but degrades.  Listening to voices I should not have heard
or heeded.  But this is the gossamer of dreamcloth.

What pheonixial beauty is there to witness when the ashes are scattered
like microscopic tumbleweeds in the jumble of the wordwebs of liars and children
who do not, choose to not reason with rational purpose, confusing the firefly for fire.
And unmaking love to a synonym for simple desire.

I do not know if ever I shall regain my moral authority, pride being a toxin true
to the virulence of its relatives, deceit and impure rage.  But I have purpose again,
and have made a patchwork golem of the meteoric remnants of my fall.
Gravel to gavel my own judgement, Prometheus in rags.

I will walk with you, when such is allowed, for this proud pauper knows beauty.
And in true beauty there is both divinity and the treasure of joy, foundling to too many
who have confused the cynics price with the sage's penance.  I will walk with you
as you have asked, and vary not my feet upon this road.


and she...

...and she will have your eyes.  And smile, and mouth.
And arms and legs and feet and hands.
And love you even more than I can ever.
But you will still need me for the 3 am feeding.


shaman

As you once drew the poisons from my soul in an act of charity and love,
I draw now the toxins long held deep within you, through lips puckered 
as if to kiss, but instead suckling death from out of your veins before it stains
even more deeply than it has already managed and leaves scars ineffable.
Lay back and close your eyes, bequiet your fears and trust the surgeon of your heart
to lay hands and prayers and herbal words with all the wisdom God granted
in making him wait so long in the wilderness to find you, bind you to his love.
And, if I must die, must give the rest of my life to barter one moment of joy
for you, one breath at peace with lie and all that stands before you, regret is not an issue.


secrets

Secrets are the cowards' way of 
excusing themselves 
from being themselves.
Your honesty honors me
but not as much as it gives
honor to you, yourself.


if this must be my epitaph
If when I finish this amotation, the darkness falls
and I am left severed from life, facing judgement
for my sins, leaving behind all whom I love,
then at least I will have known love.
And thus, I am content.


copyright William F. DeVault (wfdv)