The Trellis of Human Experience

Having writ as many works as I have, it is sometimes impossible to recall more than sketchy details of some.

Earlier today I cited one of my works, and realized I could not recall the name of the piece. I had to actually sit down and do research.

The piece in question is entitled "The Trellis of Human Experience" and is in my book "from an unexpected quarter". It was writ during the early stages of my relationship with my second wife and was a realistic, though romantic, appraisal of the fact that without the bumps and scars, we can't appreciate the joys of life.

The trellis of human experience

tomorrow my marrow may run with the lamentations
of a fractured heart, parted from the splendor. pretender
to the prose romantique, the poisoned poise takes pose
and fires flechettes into the flesh of our best pretenses.
Blessed is this consecration.
Tested is this life, remember,
the leaves and thorns complete the rose
and let her fragrance to our senses.

William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.

Strange day.

I asked Jasmine on a second date. She accepted (unexpected). The Faerie re-materialized, but obtusely (does she ever appear otherwise?). I came down too hard on my left foot and aggravated my gout. An old friend materialized on the web, and a new suitor. Or is someone just playing games?

Trust is a rare and arcane currency in my world now. I carry too many chips of flint, broke off from rough and razor-edged blades, in the skin of my back. My internal organs are intact, but the pain is debilitating most days.

"Tested is this life" indeed.