We start at the beginning, with the first of the White Sunday poems, back when I was not even aware of whom I was writing, just that a presence had drawn my spirit...
Torn and tossed, a Pentecost of more than five dimensions.
Slow to break the fast that lasted half a step of the dance
and then some. Kisses in scarlet and solferino, memory runs
and locks itself away. Playing for time expended in chance
opportunities that pleased all and none depending on the filter
of the perspective through eyes closed in a repose I once chose,
not knowing the price of commitment to the greater good, impure
like a diamond, to a first water. Last man out as the second sun rose
to bring a light that castrates the night but only for a season
or a score of seasonings, reasonings resounding in a pounding
like an elusive heart that has finally found the tempest tapestry, reason
enough to wait for the late fate of the sound of a heart, resounding.
Lay with me when you are ready, I am in no hurry to waste a resurrection
on the muddied middle of the hymns to a flawed law of perfection.
William F. DeVault. all rights reserved. and deserved.
Blending Southern Gothic mystery romance, fantasy, theater, dance, music, and flashes of humor, tells the story of a pair of lovers in two separate time periods who find themselves battling an evil fifty years apart.
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