We Owe Debt to Memory

I was of a mood to post this piece, which was well received when first struck, in 2002, and some have argued its place in the five or ten best single pieces I have wrought.

We Owe Debt to Memory

A lonely tale is bound to wind
around a spindled point,
to make of us a metaphor,
twin avatars, to annoint.

And there are those who will relate
our falls and victories,
and sell our shells in necklaces
declared to cure disease.

For we owe debt to memory.
And those who bear the ark.
The acolytes of ancient nights
we melted in the dark.

We can not burn at this degree
and not outshine, at least,
the dimmer stars, if not the moon,
and sundry suns, released.

If you dare not to be a mold
for dreams of those unborn,
then tip your hat and hand and flee
this pilgrim, bent and worn.

For we owe debt to memory.
And those who bear the ark.
The acolytes of ancient nights
we melted in the dark.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.

You know who you are. Peace.