like shades within the old crypt door
still wrapped in silken moonlit shrouds, the same
we bound her corpse in one fortnight before.
Caressing now the plate which bears her name,
dead flowers clutched against her bosom tight.
I placed them on the casket lid, insane
with grief. And then they took her from my sight
and sealed my love inside that cold, dark crypt,
her beauty cruelly hidden from the light.
And so each night since then I've stealthly slipped
past iron gates, and stepped among the stones
to spend my nights near she whose loved was ripp'd
from me by Death, his coward face unshown,
who mocks my sadness with this ghostly loan.
-- © 1999, W.A. Seaver.