the riddle

I promise, a last post for now. Later, or at least tomorrow.

the riddle

I draw out the words in soft sigils in the dust.
dust left behind to grind the soles of our shoes
slowly to powder to join it in the streets, defeated.
for all things turn to ash and trash and crash
to the ground with sound or not depending on
if anyone is there to listen. or care.
I am thousands of miles from daylight, bright
and articulate and warming in a way that I need
like you need water and air and a pillow for your head.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.