The fourth poem of the 2010 seven poem cycle, written to celebrate the poet's relationship with the totem-muse known as White Sunday.
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the words you heard at the peak of my ecstasy hold true in the shallow shadows
of a room where there is no artificial heat or need to play pretense.
I would love you even had I not just melted into you, leaving part of me forever,
and I will still worship at this altar is the veil falls and I am cast out and away.
this was not a little boy playing at manhood. this was a lover, unlike any other
you have probably encountered. ministering his faith into you, and drawing hope
that you will confirm that this was more than another sawdust trail conversion.
do you reject the madness of this graceless age, where our Gods are all artificial?
will the laying on of our hands and lips kiss away all issues and doubts,
the stigma and stigmata of our self-imposed exile from the mediocrity?
speak me words of your heart, true , mine are constant and are of love for you.
William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.