A love so bold,
As to pierce the realm of life,
Is romance to make blood run cold,
Yet fill hearts with the tune of the lilting fife.
I lay resting in the soil,
Buried at the crossroads,
Despite my life of work and toil,
Left to rot in my cursed bode.
Ah, but what song is this?
Rousing me from slumber,
Forcing fingers to dig and mouth to hiss,
No longer so encumbered.
“Freedom!” I cry with jubilation,
Bony fist thrust to the sky,
As I clamber from my damnation,
Buried deep from when I died.
With naught but a burial shroud about me,
Still I feel the pull,
Of my love and her radiant beauty,
So I allow my senses to lull.
In mere hours I find myself before her manor,
Once-white sheet now in tatters,
Stained with jellied flesh and gore,
I am ready to present myself with impeccable manners.