In 2010, the poet contemplating confessing his passion to a friend (he did, eventually).
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if I fell on my knees before you
and begged you for your heart
would you think about my hunger
and consider me apart
from the other offered lovers
and their mysteries, their stones
that they lay upon the altars
as a barter for your bones
to be part of their alchemistry
with saffron and with ash
to be part of an experiment
when their base illusions clash
I come bearing nothing more
than truths and tenderness
a gift of heart and heat
in a graceless, chilling wilderness
I am a simple weaver of words
words pressed like last autumn's leaves
between the pages of trivial tales
that are only as true as one believes
William F. DeVault. all rights reserved