A bride of crimson, silent, paper thin, 
‎A painted doll where longing used to bloom. 
‎Ghost marriage binds us, though I cannot win 
‎Her living touch, entombed within this room. 
‎She needs my hand to guide her reverent bow, 
‎The wine she sips runs rivers down her dress, 
‎And food escapes the lips I can't allow 
‎To smudge or she'll look lifelike less
‎Where is she truly? By the Yellow Springs, 
‎Her soul adrift? Or bones beneath the ground? 
‎Is she the name whose sound still to the tablet clings, 
‎Or just this doll where silence can be found? 
‎It matters not. Let spirits come and go. 
‎She's mine, all mine, that's all I need to know