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Daily Deviation
Daily Deviation
October 25, 2017
playing the hard Abelard in the game of hearts. by williamfdevault
Featured by BeccaJS
Literature Text
I.
I fold, cold, cards rough to my fingers.
the bitter and brittle fear rising like vomit
in my throat, coating me in a mist of mysteries.
histories echoing with every doubt, case out.
road kill in the still morning air, food for fortune.
instinct blinking out with final thready heartbeats.
II.
at a distance puppets dance mad and sad,
our taint restrains tensions tested to wrest
incidental assumptions now made mad
as they burrow deeper to at length best
well-wrought defense, made of memories won
in games of chance with cards cut from our flesh
to bear barter for hearts in grimmest fun
mocking our marks, wagers we can refresh
from the seeming endless Tantalus purses
we hide, inside, to bide time for the tell
presumed in eyes that lie out of curses
ancient as an holy scripture, God’s spell
cast in castrations of divinity
as we take hemlock from necessity.
III.
the shadows dance because the fire does
and so do we
and our chaotic nature does not permit us
vision of all elements at once
so we play the dunce
understanding that control is an illusion
IIII.
the lion holds his wrath
because, somehow, he feels
that it is not the antelope’s fault
that it was born without claws
or jaws enough to make a worthy prey
V.
the Apollonian balance blanches at the excesses
of demons chained and near starved in old stone.
encrypted like the black words they spit
in a tongue I alone know the Rosetta stone.
hard and near permanent, illuminated
scripture to a mad God’s religion, sacrifices
proving only desperation and not worthiness.
I spit blood then split atoms, then start again,
the formula for the ritual not yet perfected.
VI.
the invitation is given.
no one accepts.
the temple is emptied
and the cycle begins again.
the religion is in the teachings.
but a God without worshippers
will slowly fade to legend.
then, into nothingness.
VII.
upon fresh stones and the attar of roses
I contemplate my cithara
then seek a new pluck of the strings
to bring perhaps a new magic
a summoning of something new
something
something less uncertain
still, in my stubbornness
refusing to surrender to doubt
in the eventual outcome
the elegance of sacrifice
the beauty of love
in a world of fragile, shattered prayers
William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.
I fold, cold, cards rough to my fingers.
the bitter and brittle fear rising like vomit
in my throat, coating me in a mist of mysteries.
histories echoing with every doubt, case out.
road kill in the still morning air, food for fortune.
instinct blinking out with final thready heartbeats.
II.
at a distance puppets dance mad and sad,
our taint restrains tensions tested to wrest
incidental assumptions now made mad
as they burrow deeper to at length best
well-wrought defense, made of memories won
in games of chance with cards cut from our flesh
to bear barter for hearts in grimmest fun
mocking our marks, wagers we can refresh
from the seeming endless Tantalus purses
we hide, inside, to bide time for the tell
presumed in eyes that lie out of curses
ancient as an holy scripture, God’s spell
cast in castrations of divinity
as we take hemlock from necessity.
III.
the shadows dance because the fire does
and so do we
and our chaotic nature does not permit us
vision of all elements at once
so we play the dunce
understanding that control is an illusion
IIII.
the lion holds his wrath
because, somehow, he feels
that it is not the antelope’s fault
that it was born without claws
or jaws enough to make a worthy prey
V.
the Apollonian balance blanches at the excesses
of demons chained and near starved in old stone.
encrypted like the black words they spit
in a tongue I alone know the Rosetta stone.
hard and near permanent, illuminated
scripture to a mad God’s religion, sacrifices
proving only desperation and not worthiness.
I spit blood then split atoms, then start again,
the formula for the ritual not yet perfected.
VI.
the invitation is given.
no one accepts.
the temple is emptied
and the cycle begins again.
the religion is in the teachings.
but a God without worshippers
will slowly fade to legend.
then, into nothingness.
VII.
upon fresh stones and the attar of roses
I contemplate my cithara
then seek a new pluck of the strings
to bring perhaps a new magic
a summoning of something new
something
something less uncertain
still, in my stubbornness
refusing to surrender to doubt
in the eventual outcome
the elegance of sacrifice
the beauty of love
in a world of fragile, shattered prayers
William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.
Literature
dried up
there's a bitter sort of irony
in the idea that you two love each other.
it's not much of a secret that neither of you
are all that good at keeping people--
i hold on much longer than i should,
& i still let both of you go.
sunshine girl,
you should know that i put my all into you.
you were my future & i believed in us
more strongly than anyone else.
somehow you still let me down.
i know that you are human & that
i am a lot to deal with,
but you expected too much of me.
you wanted me to put you first &
when i told you i did,
you never believed me.
that disbelief taught me to question
myself,
& in the end it taught me
t
Literature
some things to know about me:
1. i am going to say the wrong thing.
i will stumble over my words,
awkward and too loud or too soft
but never just right,
because i can't really do anything right.
in my defense, i'm human.
2. i will worry you.
i do my best to be okay
but sometimes my best isn't enough,
mostly when i feel like
i'm not enough,
and there's not much
i can do about that.
i can't promise you
that i'll always be okay,
but i can promise you
that i will always
find my way back to it
eventually.
3. i'm not always pretty.
sometimes, people are ugly,
like when they're crying
or mad at you
for all the wrong reasons.
sometimes, you will look at me
and wonder why
you th
Literature
sepulcher
your body is jerusalem,
he’ll tell you
coveted first, then plundered.
– you’re my backwater bedroom
martyr, he’ll tell you
as he nails your wrists
to bedposts,
seizes your tongue like
a white flag,
pulls stones from your parapets –
little sister,
i’ll tell you
the children’s crusade
is lost:
and you’ll kneel at his sword and know
you were always his
to take
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I wrote this cycle this evening, trying to blow off a deep and degenerative funk. Note the sonnet that is the second poem.
© 2017 - 2024 williamfdevault
Comments16
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This is haunting in a way, a resident in my head. I will return to read it more, no doubt. Your attention to sounds is inspiring; I wanted to hear this read from atop a stage. It feels like its intensity would wax and wane with the audience's anticipation.
VI hung in my head far longer, but I suppose it's because I've always liked contemplating things of this nature.
II flowed so smoothly, and I loved that it was a sonnet. Wonderful discipline.
Congrats on the DD!
VI hung in my head far longer, but I suppose it's because I've always liked contemplating things of this nature.
II flowed so smoothly, and I loved that it was a sonnet. Wonderful discipline.
Congrats on the DD!