Opening time´s dark closet, where the old
wedding gown still hung,
She heard drifting from within, how the old
chapel bells once rung,
The whisperings of old mothballs, from the
gown so barely worn,
As she waited before past´s altar, as her
groom was shot at dawn.
Upon memories of old winds, the cruel
tolling of death´s knell,
Taking the rightful place, of the promised
nuptial & joyous bells,
And past the wrinkles of her life, she
still heard the vows unsworn,
Fingering old frayed lace, yellowing &
by sleepy moths now torn.
Within her pitch dark soul, she sees the
mirage of his long gone face,
Leaving her forever, in her Havisham´s
forgotten & cobwebbed place,
Drifting from within wardrobe´s dark, aroma
of lilac & old musk rose,
As together with the old tattered lace, her
old memories decompose.
The old wedding gown, like her, now creased
& with virgin love infused,
Untouched by his loving heart & hands, now
ageing & still unused,
And closing the wardrobe door, of Somme´s memories
un-begun,
Within her distant promise, bugle calls &
the echoing of the gun.
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