Perhaps it is the season
to place my faith, again,
in the joy and the passion
of a woman's deep heart.

To offer up my honor,
my hunger and my heart
to the fates, for my part,
as a sacrifice to their whims.

I have not lost a step
on this road of dark corners
where whispers are murders
and rewards are quite rare.

But I can't see my failing
to see this through till mourning
replaces a voice warning
of the shadows that linger.

In the moments she ponders
there's a bittersweet venom
on the kiss of a woman
to the light or the dark.

On the lips of an angel
I have tasted redemption
and sad desecration
when she ponders too long.

Or when choosing unwisely
not knowing or caring,
her shallows breed suffering
and the currents then fail.

I cannot stand for her
if she doesn't come bearing
or at least shout a warning
when the demons abound.

On the black brick'd road
on which I will yet wander,
I will, in truth, wonder
what is under my tread.

I shall seek a soft solace
but not a surrender
I will take no pretender
again to my bed.

I will drink my new wine
in the memory of lovers,
each angels who hovers
will light a new light.

Be she destiny, incarnate,
or yet another missed moment,
I shall keep to this torment
undefeated, through the night.


copyright William F. DeVault