White Sunday 150: emeralds

precious mettle, bright as ten thousand emeralds.
the air burns with the premonitions of what comes.
love approaches, beyond the dreams of cold heralds.
it walks with steady tread where others have but crawled,
footfalls alone pounding like a great legions' drums.
precious mettle, bright as ten thousand emeralds.
the unanticipated champion, once walled
and left for dead, I sustained myself, dreams and crumbs.
love approaches, beyond the dreams of cold heralds.
when all doubt was stripped away by scourge and by scalds,
ripped away scars and stars, becoming what becomes.
precious mettle, bright as ten thousand emeralds.
I wait, hesitate, I watched the gate unappalled
for the sign of the lover, the cithara's strums:
love approaches, beyond the dreams of cold heralds.
no fear, no pain, sanctified by a union called
by your lips, your eyes, and the succubus succumbs.
precious mettle, bright as ten thousand emeralds.
love approaches, beyond the dreams of cold heralds.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.