The Sentinal

Ron Koppelberger

The Sentinel

Bashful, enlightened by the consideration in thrill, the prince attuned himself to the sufferance of honor and practical magic. He was predetermined by the emphatic lords of distinction and discovery, a sentinel in bug eyed settlements of garden reception and demon rattle.
He shaped the rosary in lithe moments of prayer as he sensed the rush of secret stealth. The passion of gathering reflections convened and the arrest began. He watched as the currents proved the trouble of dreams and elusive chains; they wrapped the unreal in orders of illusion. A cluster of supple swans in plumes of soot and ash divided by the measure of miles and seconds in disharmony. He prayed and they became ribbons of a proclaimed delivery, a serpent and a haunted scourge of dark silhouette, a breath of gauze and a dozen roses, bloody and crying dew drop tears of revolution.
He prayed and locked the gate, the vacillating government of illusion and imperfection. The door closed and he saw amber waves of saffron, slaked wheat as ripples of cool rain nourished the wheat from dark skies and indigo nights in blossom.