Procura's Nightmare

On the eve of silver doubt,

A bride stirs in her sleep.

Restless visions bar the gate and so she weeps

Solace stolen, for death’s last rout.


Fortress walls though tall and stout,

The winding smoke, they cannot keep

Amythyst roiling, sweltering heat,

Her nightmares drown her somber shout

 

Grinding wheels, a sea of sparks

The watchmen do not blow their horns

On lilac cumulus she embarks

“Have nothing to do with him!” she forewarns.

But like the cove with hidden shoal,

The eve of silver doubt endures, the Savior's amaranthine veil is torn. 

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