From the Grave

There, in his doorway, she was.

Staring emotionlessly at him,

With eyes made of glass,

Black to the very rim.

He may have swept her into his tender embrace,

if he hadn’t known the cold dark truth.

He ought to be running, as if he were in a race.

She really shouldn’t be here, no matter if its cruel.

Why, why must she cruelly haunt him,

like an ominous shadow, following in the daylight?

Why must she almost desperately remind him,

of a truth that brings him such plight?

She should be dead,

buried in their garden.

They were to be wed

in that same garden.

The madness is sneaking in,

to the depths of his mind.

“You know I had to do it!”,

He shrieks, blind to his own crime.

For he had killed his soon-to-be wife,

ruthlessly murdering her, in his strife.