There is a point in the arc of living lives parallel
where all the gifts of heaven and thoughts of hell
will not produce an image of provable clarity.
The charity of our prayers, visions taken alive
to be slowly cut down in the tortures we strive
to justify in meandering memories and prophecy.
Buying the worldview of others, sold in paper weighed
by scales that are irrelevant to truth.  Parts played
on a stage we are forced upon, acting and reacting
to the directions out of confusion, the cool breeze
of our self-awareness blocked by the windbreak trees
we fooled ourselves into thinking as a clever thing,
to throw in the face of others.  Ancient harmonies
reborn in an instant of illumination and honest desire
when one finally looks through eyes of stained glass and fire.


copyright William F. DeVault