the way of the Amomancer

There is a point where will alone propels the frame of the machine of flesh that is the chariot of our sentience and spirituality.

Will alone

We recognize it in oaths we make
to ourselves and before God,
claiming we will defeat the greater powers
of hate or fear or ignorance or passivity,
filling our cavities with the oil of cloves
we pressed for this eventuality.

The tempering fire.
It roars with scores of coals of souls
we plucked from the grounding earth,
part of the birth of a newly, truly ordered world.
A place where hurled epithets
splinter on the bending curl of our hope.

Will alone is regent, reagent,
gentle in the manner of rain, which before the wind
blasts the rocks until they fall, in time
to be washed to the bottom of the seas,.
As we please, we do. As we do, we are undone,
as the sun cannot penetrate the oceans.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.

I have a friend. Perhaps I would, if the will were hers or I was of baser metal as such to play the cards in a manner to usurp her will, be more than friend, but then I would no longer be me, but a shadow fiend, unworthy of the powers of the flowers of the fields of Arbol, where my dreams sleep even when I wake.

She is beautiful, but troubled, for there is grief and cause for grief in her life. I will act for her, as she requests, in all honor, in her difficulties, although it pains me to be aiding her just to let her into another man's arms.

But the pain purifies and penances the poet, buying back another grain of his sandstone soul from the bottom of the seas, where the disease of arrogance swept them, kept them, to be bartered, a grain of sand for every drop of blood, every lost kiss.

For this is the path of the Amomancer, the Ronin in the Temple of Aphrodite.