quiet now.
we dare not let the words escape
the rape
of our perceptions.
misdirections.
a bloody dove vanishes
in a flurry of silks
and satins.
on point we play at purpose.
to no end
but
our own, stones cracked
under the tread of restless boots.
the silence.
it is a lie.
like so many lies we've told
and tell.
some to protect others.
some
to murder truth
because
we know we are more important
than reality.
than love.
than life.
than God.
and so
the silence betrays
one more lie.


copyright William F. DeVault (wfdv)