Back in the days of no jackets,
when the light crept over the ridge
and cast spindly shadows
among the willows,
she would wander out to
his eternal, hallowed bed.
Ensconced in sheer floral lace,
she'd lay her beauty to the stone
and let her broken tears
beckon her sleeping husband home.
Like reflective, liquid love letters
that shimmered red in the morning sun,
her bidding was done
when the grave dirt came alive.
But, there was always a price.
Tolls to pay,
when you're a dead man's wife.
The first time she watered his tomb,
in that summer of wasted moon,
she heeded not the old hag's warning.
She went about forlorning 'til
she woke her lover, her darling,
and begged him to dance
beneath the bloody crimson sky.
But, he was not the same,
and only worse the second
and third time around.
Wormy, then bony,
fingers through the ground,
he skinned the beauty from her eyes
and marked her face with his bite.
This was her price.
She was forever shunned,
from her family, her friends.
Back in the days of no jackets
and hot summer sun,
she was left to die alone,
wrapped in her own,
Molly Roland is a writer by nature, and she enjoys stepping over the invisible lines society loves to draw.