Miss Havisham

A stale wind blows through the mansion
Succumbing to crumbling rubble.
Emptiness flickers in dark hallways,
Layers from years of dust lay hidden.
The garden transformed into a jungle,
The old brewery, a silent drunk.

The clocks are stopped in their tock,
Time frozen for eternity, hesitating always.

A harsh wail of a scream pierces
Silence, shattering stillness.

An old, wasted lady leans against the wall
As tears explore a wrinkled maze,
And drip on the cracked wooden floor.
Still in her wedding dress, yellow,
To match her aged and sallow face,
She reaches feebly for her crooked cane
And hobbles around the vacant room
In one shoe, heel broken in two.

A decorated table swathed in pale lace
Occupies the center of the small room.
A wedding cake, covered in cobwebs,
Never tasted, hard as stone
Rises toward the rusted chandelier.

The elderly, sorrowful lady climbs onto the table,
Moth-eaten gown smoothed from wrinkling
As she lies straight as a board, sunken eyes closed
With a bouquet of dead flowers and weeds
In her soft, limp hands, resting on her stomach.
Softly, in a low whisper, she says to no one,
“When I’m dead, will you come visit me?”