Sweet Emily

Bare trees

a quiksilver moon

frigid wind blows

Victor stumbles as he recites his vows

With a sweep of newfound confidence

like a lamb finally walking,

He glides through his vows

and with a tender flourish,

places the ring on a twig.

A grave misunderstanding.

The twig is a bony hand

that claws the ground

as Emily the Corpse Bride

breaks free of her grave.

“I do”

A glided whisper of her pink lips.