The Bleeding Bride

The paschal moonlight threw its rays
On sleepless cemetary ground,
Where trusting souls search for delay,
Where hope and faith can run aground.

I walked up to the chapel hill,
To call on my last resting place,
When suddenly a curious chill,
Heralded what I was to face.

Beneath a graveyard stone she sat,
An ageless, graceful maiden-bride,
Clutching an off-white rose bouquet,
Magenta spots falling on white.

A dead straight, waiting silhouette
Against the dawning nightly glow,
A hundread pearls of blood she shed,
Mirroring a strange tale of woe.

All statuesque, she did remain,
Regardless of the running time,
Controlled by an infinite flame,
For something hidden, she did pine.

But at the strike of midnight bell,
She straightend up her tattered dress,
Arose, and stepped out of her shell,
Forthright, she started to confess:

“I come here every other year,
Because my yearning is my home,
My love may bend, but never sear,
He´s missing, but I´m not alone.

My expectations compass me
Beyond all wretched shades of blame,
They´re whispering the sweetest plea
Beyond all weary sighs of shame.”

And thereupon, from starry skies
Aroused a sweeping rustling,
And right before my puzzled eyes
The bleeding bride was vanishing.

When finally, the maelstrom stopped,
And daylight brightened up the place,
Oh! There she sat, in virgin rock!
A smile adorned her mable face.

**********

Alice McDuff ~ 18 July 2007