In late 2008 the poet expressed his "allegiance to the essence of love".
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Harvest the thought that was regent and rare,
an air upon an harmonic desire
to cap our life and tone with tender care,
to pull our hands from the hot sparks and fire
that would consume us down to smoke and ash.
Mottled, bottled memory of a time
when we were proud, cresting as the waves crash
on inarticulate sands, in a prime
that marks not clock or purse, but energies
released and not ceased in the face of pain
that strives to drive us to unwilling knees
before we speak its name, in flames, again.
But we love because we can and as such
we are made immortal to tempests' touch.
William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.