by Jay Newman:
Death came and stole the last
breath of freedom
from the shadows underneath
the covers and stiffened
the raven’s hair
with comfort of thousands
of full moons at midnight,
glaring pale on hardened cheeks
and broken, lack-luster lips.
No blood stained the pillows,
as black as the velvet-
lined casket buried beneath
the family plot
and the last caress
of blind gazes behind a web-
weaved veil and matching shroud,
decayed, below pacing footsteps.
Tip-toe through the tombstones
in the graveyard at twilight
and plant a wreath before invisible
names to kill the same emptiness
again and again—and again.
The dark wine mourned the celebration,
sloshing crystalline over the edge
of the flute onto the corsaged
lapel and smeared the bleach-
cloud wedding gown with a funeral
dirge,
the same dirge the Victrola echoes
around the high-backed chair
until the brooding man’s ears bleed
out the wails of the withered
chrysanthemums
in the frail clutches of the beloved
Ligeia.
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