new poetry tonight: bent sentience

I can see through eyes silent no more,
floor to the sky. I understand the bland passions
that lack the dimensions of true emotion,
going through the motions in the cold wombs.

Tombs we can't admit to, we submit to pain
like brittle, bitter spittle bugs, no real soul
but relexes and pretexts that chain us to dreams
we walk though, uncomprehending.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.