Transformation

A rough texture: a gothic light: a rotten soul: a sudden flight.
And she grew death, afraid to love, a vixen shrine, the brine
Of blood. And tare to rose, a wing to die, a frigid stone, and
Prone to lie. And bait to heart, a rabbit pride, aloof and free,
A need to stride. But depth the soul, a silent prayer, a thirst
For love, a woman’s flare. And soul to flame, the minx of
Rome, a studded sylph, a tare alone. And tears to sex, the
Nights of lust, a jilted heart, the lack of trust.

Oh the pressure, a sigh of hope, to heal the soul, to cast the
Rope. And dawn to light, unbolt the pain, redeem the love,
The drums aflame. And prune to rose, the case of gold, a
Wing to fly, a soul to hold. And lock to heart, the bride of
Light, a need to live, the moral life. Thus the vixen,
Adorned in white, a prudent queen, a brilliant wife.