She arises from sorrow's casket,
trussed up in a dusky wedding dress,
yellow tinted cushions below her,
supposedly,
supporting her deathly pallid head,
somewhat discoloured,
looking rather distressed.
carnations and confetti unfurled,
sprinkled maybe as pretty portents abound,
a warning,
that maybe true love ne'er lasts.

Her man,
he sits longingly,
enduring his pain,
perhaps as a tragic hero,
awaiting,
almost to take the blame,
the blame for her demise,
beside her he crouches,
as she's sat,
upon her marble slab,

And yet again,
she rises,
yawning,
stretching out her immortal warning,

Poplars dress the mausoleum,
behind the greying pillars,
to the right,
a gathering,
a crowd small in number,
most impressed,
by non-committal of death's distress,
and her lover,
he sits,
and sits some more,
looking longingly into death's dark eyes,
while patiently awaiting her final tragic goodbye.
(c) Livvi