THE BRIDE OF CAVENDISH
- 3 days ago
- 2 min read
By Evelyn Thakur
Midnight, darkness abound — here comes the Bride of Cavendish!
Gaze upon her sallow, shuddering form,
as she floats from her marbl'd fortress to reach for your hand;
catch the dim glow of candlelight burning through her diaphanous skin,
clear as glass and
crystalline as the oceans once reflected in her eyes.
Pray, keep your distance!
The Bride is beautiful,
porcelain doll kept pristine despite
the weathered hand of time enshrouding us
til our bones collapse to powdered ivory;
but notice how she lingers in the shadows.
Notice the tangy sheen on her pearlescent fangs,
the lapping of her forked tongue
on the crimson folds of her lips.
Keep the candlelight steady
as she tears into the flesh of a deer;
neck curled into her claws, glass shard of bone stiff as a flag.
Her rosiness has faded —
dimpled cheek'd nature of maiden shame
fast withered into grey clouds of oblivion —
youth and vigor hallowed out like
the quick strike of an artist with the chisel.
She is daemon incarnate, hungry for the church bell to ring once more.
What she seeks,
blissful sacrament of sacrifice;
keep your barren hand hidden
and your collar starched,
for if she cannot have your hand,
your neck will please her likewise.
The time has come — reach for your stake!
Pray the shadowy tempests of her grave
reach you not,
and strike with purpose.
Thrust your instrument into the chest,
through the chasm of her corpse,
pierce the hollow heart of
The Bride of Cavendish!