She moves
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.