Bride

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Bride

A Sonnet

Mira

The armour drops and so all techniques
I grow pristine by every shedding norm;
My script is bereft of all intrigues
I become as an infant of tender form.

The terror of worlds shocks me yet
Time’s kin wound me by their ways.
By daily norm of old am still beset
Stunted currents of old still strays.

A new age or perhaps a new hell
Is my scene and impending act.
Who shall know or even tell
In whispers brief of this pact?

My Beloved has cast his glance on all of me
I tremble all over as His bride to be.