City of Legends

While the Amomancer blog is being hammered by the White Sunday works, I thought I’d bring a poem straight here.  It came off of reading through a massive folder I have that contains the emails, the letters (or epistles) between myself and a woman whom I shared a relationship with.  The words, I believe, were true in the frame she spoke them, my words, of course, remain true…but the truth is, all faiths fail…

thistling epistles

the barren boughs are what the casual observer
would see, in this tree, planted then recanted
like the meal you thought better of later.
the vines wend their way up the mighty trunk
to choke the life from it, each barb and brier
seeking to steal that which beauty would inspire
and bring down the living arms that reached to God
in gratitude for the Spring and the harvest
that never came. and were it not for the epistles
of the dreamers who once climbed in its embrace,
the beauty and the majesty of this tree would be lost.

William F. DeVault.  all rights reserved.