1996, and after a disastrous visit from the Panther, the poet curls up and writes words of anger and pain and frustration.
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taking the blank dare
tabula rasa
the words run past like dust
crushed stone powder to match failed ardor
a parlour trick for slick magicks
prepared beforehand.
the patter of tiny feats.
cunning sweets shared on a tray of a low-end straight
where the suicide king wears his heart on his sleeve.
leave.
now,
before I change my mind and find
a reason for you to remain.
and yet, it is too late...
for I wait for a reaffirmation.
a remembrance of a dance
told only in metaphors on freshly waxed floors
where the dance of death
steals the final breath
in your arms, promised decades ago.
and only delivered on the wings
of a raven
on my writing desk.
as the sun sets over the Pacific,
to cry itself to sleep.
as you have deserted it.
again.
William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.