deepundergroundpoetry.com

The Bride

Dressed in a gown of white,
veil hung over her face.
Blood dripping down on side of her face.
Face, arm and side. . . destroyed.
She stands in front of the door,
follows me down hallways.
Sings me lullabys so that I cannot sleep.
Corrupts my dreams.
I've seen her in the corner,
reading my books.
Humming her songs.
Crying for her sorrows.
She is unpredictable.
But she is not a danger.
She is dead.
But not evil.
A wandering ghost not ready to pass on.
Not a demon or an evil spirit that wants to cause me harm.

She followed me from the apartment,
appeared in my friends house.
And not she is in the hotel room that I stay in now.
Her skin is transparent, almost blue.
How did she die?
Chopped up with an axe?
I do not know.
My room the only one she would not enter.
But my dreams she would haunt.
Her songs would wake me up and send chills down my spine.

One night she appeared in my dream.
And staring face to face with her.
II couldn't breathe.
For some unexplained reason.
What did she want from me?
I woke with a sudden jolt.
And was slammed down onto my bed.
I had been suspended in air.
I had been floating.
Tears prick at my eyes.
And I started to cry.

She's not the one that I have seen since.
Others have appeared and done worse things than she has.
She is harmless I would assume.
But when she stands as still as a statue
in a dark room.
I just don't know. . .

Can you trust a ghost?
Especically a dead bride,
that may or may not have been murdered
by hurtful or loving hand?

She may be reading this over my shoulder right now.
She's done that too.
Maybe interesting by my technology
or just curious to what I'm doing.
I am going to stop talking about her.
Before she gets mad at me.
I would like to sleep tonight.