I wrote this poem in my Computer class.
Dew ‘pon morning brought summer’s tears,
Causing the mother inside to cry.
She looked to the open casket of her daughter,
Claimed of the life she so wrongly deserved.
Her auburn hair resting against the silk,
Shell-coated lips covering up the blue of death.
Her body covered in her favorite outfit,
A t-shirt from the thrift shop, and pants she made her own.
Hands crossed across her breast,
Grasp the flower of the jasmine rarely found.
Nails opaque with the smoothness,
And the sick feel of the embalming fluid.
She smelled of fresh roses but with bitterness,
The bitterness of death and fumes of the funeral home.
Even the mortician refused to look at her,
Because she was his own daughter.
But I sit in this empty chair,
Watching her unmoving corpse lay there.
I feel a heavy burden of regret on my shoulders,
A sin amounting to the weight of boulders.
I killed her, the poor girl of a child,
While driving onto the broken road of the mountain.
Loneliness and intoxication coaxed me,
And I felt like a deer crossed into the headlights.
But what I wouldn’t give to lie there,
Next to my lovely Corpse Bride…
