The sixth poem of the 2010 seven poem cycle, written to celebrate the poet's relationship with the totem-muse known as White Sunday. A particularly wrenching consideration for the poet, he can be heard openly weeping in the recording of this work he performed for his January 1, 2011 podcast.
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I am sworn unto death to love you. And beyond if permitted.
I will not love you as long as you live, but as I do, assured.
So here we are at last. Mortals. Lovers. Friends. The vows avowed said
to trust without doubt or fail, love for as long as time is measured.
I would feel your hands on my face one last time, breath on my skin, warm.
It matters not who passes first, but that we find ourselves again
within arm's reach of one another, I will miss your gentle form,
curled into me and sleeping like an ardent angel, far from sin
and far from those who would pluck her wings in envy and I will dance
alone with my memories of you. Frail essence of dreams, next to
the truth that I had not loved like this before we kissed at distance.
You are as beautiful as Summer, as perfect as Spring, and you
will always be my Sunday Girl, no matter the day or season.
I found love to measure God against. Apocalyptic passion.
William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.