the loom of doom had woven us together...we who are
anathema to reason, the ending of a season of hope.
I would not be able to cope if not for you, 
my dreams would be sterile and cracked.  
the bags are packed.  I despise the coldness 
that wraps us in its cloak... I choke back the lachrymal emissions... 
our positions are self-revealing.  big boys do not cry...
but they can die.

the feast is done.  the beast has gone and left us...
so alone we listen to the breeze...the thief flees and
leaves us to measure the loss.  I can not.  shall not.
dare not count this the end.  never was there such a friend.  
call upon me. fall upon me in times of pain.  
more remains than may be acknowledged in this moment.  
the seed still lives.  but the shoots are now trimmed 
to encourage proper growth.


copyright William F. DeVault (wfdv)