Dreams Come
White upon fog upon snow upon dreams,
dreams upon snow upon fog upon white.
Dreams come, as if the minutiae of day
are merely a prelude to night vision.
It is kin to the sun but it is not the sun,
its light is not golden and it does not warm.
His left hand is under my head,
his right hand does embrace me.
Deb'rah slew the heart of her enemy
as the prophecy foretold.
Copyright © Chetta Achara | Year Posted 2021
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