National Poetry Month
Ghost/Box, Shiver/Gaze, Cold/Wicked
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The Spectre of a Bride
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It looked just like a quiet place
Though *cold and dark inside
I’d scorned all the haunting tales
Of a *ghostly spirit bride
I saw it hanging in the room
A cob web? old and stale?
But as I *gazed through dusky gloom
I saw a wedding veil
Beneath the veil a small pinched face
*Shivered with cold dead eyes
And from her pale and bloodless lips
She uttered whimp’ring cries
A crimson stain was on her dress
She clutched a dripping knife
And on the floor a body lay
New husband of this wife
I’d heard, of course. But not believed
The things that people said
How the *wicked groom betrayed his bride
And how she stabbed him dead
But now she’s *boxed inside this house
Where she can find no peace
For the girl who hanged for murder
The horrors never cease
I left this sad demented house
I left with no goodbye
For now I know behind these walls
A girl will ever cry
Copyright © Margaret Foster | Year Posted 2025
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