Procura's Nightmare
A sonnet of Precarious Finality
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
Amethyst 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.
About the Creator
Thomas Speer
I'm a God-fearing tumbleweed of a man, a gentle husband, loving foster parent, screwed up past and amazingly ordained future serving the Lord and expressing his revelation in my writing. Don't expect the dry and sanctimonious, though.
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