In mid-2009, the poet expressed the passions arising within him under the yet unrevealed passion for the totem-muse White Sunday.
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I want to be the consecration of all your hesitation.
I'm not looking to seduce you
or in words to reproduce you
as a shadow of a light that burns so bright.
I'm not heading for a showdown
with my urges, dark and lowdown.
and won't walk away if you want to talk away the night.
There is thunder to lay under
as the light of heaven leavens
all our baggage, for a moment, lost and tossed.
I'm not looking just to use you
or in words to ruse, confuse you,
but know you glow, immolation worth the cost.
I want to be the consecration of all your hesitation.
I want to be the first, the last, the best and more.
I want to be sent reeling off the walls and off the ceiling
and to find my mind defined within your core.
I'm not spitting out excuses for the shadowdancer muses
that seemed bright while I lingered in the night,
barely living but for the sorceries of the dream.
I'm just ready for the static to be more than cinematic,
to reach this nosferatu heart with surging, purging light
that burns away the mocking memories with photic scream.
William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.