gold and violet, godless and violent, the colours kiss
and the hiss of the creation overwhelms the light of stars
that are but gaseous scars in the dark matter of dreams.
love is the quintessential fabric that sustains us between
the flicker of conception and the cold embers of death.
the breath of a sated lover that hovers just in front of you
before you say something earnest but too heavy in times
that are measured in a false gratitude of platitudes, graceless,
faceless like every name that fades in the charades.

time slows.  then stops.  for how long, no one knows,
of it there is no measure when the cosmic egg rips through
the quantum foam and we roam only within ourselves.
life is a dream and death is the waking, taking us away
from the other dreamers who may not even exist
if Democritus is to be believed and we are so deceived
by our own need to not be alone that we invent bent
simulacrums that carry out the ragged rhythm
of our solitude that intrudes in our illusions, in the moment.


William F. DeVault.  all rights reserved.