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Rated: ASR · Poetry · Ghost · #2292171
A poem about a phantom woman who haunts a graveyard and lures lovers to their demise
The Hawthorn Bride

My hawthorn bride, eyes blazing afire
Wedding dress train of crisp fallen leaves
Leaves of Beech and leaves of my notebook
Stained with the lichen and the moss of my dreams,

We carved our hearts on the lychgate deeply
She carved between beats, a heart upon mine
With a sharpened quill of honeysuckle coil
We lay between crypts and the sweet scent of thyme,

We kissed in knowing, kindred kismet
Drowning in her hair, and scent, and her eyes
Drawing our love from the deep blackened well
I needed, I wanted for you to be mine,

As the sun broke horizon, vision of her faded
I grasped for her hand but it passed through the mist
Now I'm here, all alone, on my knees, in the graveyard
Her wedding train lies, just leaves in the wind,

Yet there on the oaken post of the lychgate
Two hearts carved deep centuries ago
And the crumpled paper of the poems I wrote her
Smouldered and burned in a soft violet glow

I lay and allow the cold leaves to shroud me,
I lay and allow the winter to erode
I lay and allow the Crows and the Magpies
Beholden to the earth, they feast on my bones,

My hawthorn bride visits me scarcely
She caresses the side of my half sunken skull
Her tears bring bright the moss that grows freely
Where my eye used to be, when my cup was full,

The seasons pass slowly, each taking its toll
With it's roots an Oak pins my spine to the ground
One bright autumn day, I am hidden no longer
Beneath leaves, my bones, a young man has found

He kneels beside me and writes his sweet poems
A poet, a dreamer, who awaits his fair bride,
I try to warn of the fate that befalls him
Yet I am silenced and muted by time's mighty tide,

Wedding dress train of leaves and his paper
Lo, the beautiful bride, she doth glide into sight,
Carving two hearts on the lychgate by moonlight
Sweeping over my bones as they dance to the night,

Alas, all too soon he is crumpled beside me
Whispering her name in his last lonely breath
Lost, marooned in this lonely old graveyard
With the crows and magpies awaiting his death,

The Hawthorn Bride, she lingers in the ether
For a hundred winters while I decay into parts
Waits for her paramour venturing beneath
That old oaken lychgate that is furnished with hearts.
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