It is a dig to be remembered
Dark thick and wet in reality
The grave difference in texture
Between life and death
Soft white pillowed silky fabrics
Entombed
In a cold hard metallic and concrete vault
Marked by a stone and a numbered plot
Where embalmed dreams and thoughts
Once so alive and filled with vigor
Escape through the mouths of worms
To be heard by only the dead ears
Attuned to the sound of silent prayers
Red roses dried in a bouquet of growing fingernails
Folded across the pleats of white satin
Concealing the naked body of the virgin
Sacrificed for love
Death of the old ways, has taken on a new love in Lady Frankenstein
And no one could love her more than me...
Ted Sheridan
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-curse-of-mary-shelly/
