by grief is the shadow granted substance.
by pain is the sinner reborn saint.
and we are cast in bitter-edged remembrance,
alone, and in the essence of our taint.

riddle and recall are blended blindly,
venom and the vineyards of the damned.
flame and tongues of ice that caper nearly
twice as long as life for any man.

death is but an instant in the pattern.
life is but an instant less than death.
for all my dreams and dares, I am but human.
I pay the pagans' price for every breath.

selling gods of gold and prayers in plastic.
buying penance paid with others' blood.
stretching time as taffy spun, elastic,
until we close our eyes for common good.

the Nosferatu's dream, it is illusion.
it calls me with a whisper and a tear.
eight years in hell for moment's dark confusion.
I curse the god who granted my life here.

pain is but the pattern to the precipice.
dreams are but for waking in the dawn.
riddles borne in answers to a mangled kiss.
the sleeper wakes to find the light is gone.


copyright William F. DeVault