From 2004, perhaps written for, but not attributed to, the totem-muse Pink Jade.
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warm breath stirs soft flesh and feathery hairs
disused to such sensations, embers stirred
from a fire long forgotten
or never caught.
kindling left untempted
by the tongues of flame and sparks
in darkness, begging.
wordless words that commune a tune
noted more for harmony than melody,
tempo’d tempting in fingertip concussions,
soft and subtle subtext for the next
thunder under a heaven obscured
to eyes closed to feel the storm,
warm and sudden.
cleansing memory of emotions
misplaced for the moment as we taste
a feast released in senses
awakened in the depths of the plutonic.
an irony of purity and hasted chastity
in unworn corners of hearts parted
by the sheen of the unseen silence.
they are more to explorations than explanations
of the purpose of our propositions.
fair and feral you are, a scar
upon many hearts that misplayed their part
in bidding with copper for gold and mithril.
here, here is the familiar stranger, danger
only if the door is left open for dreams.
the room will not recall your name.
the sheets will fold away your holy oils,
raised to a new alchemy by a fusion
in which confusion and illusion played roles
rolled out in soft surrenders and vague victories
against the horded hoards of passions.
we will be but memories of uncertain times.
you will leave within me a shadow.
a shadow which does not fade in light
for I own my own dark corners and I will feed it
and seed it and bleed it for my own blood when
the thin skin no longer holds high the horizon
like Atlas falling to one knee with a groan.
and it is my duty to your beauty to recall.
William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.