The cover of the first book I wrote (Intertwined in Limbo) had absolutely nothing to do with any story in the book. The firm that created the cover just used a picture that was “ghostly”. So I decided to write a poem that told her story.
The White Lady
Little Mason Morbid was a melancholy lad
While the other kids were playing, he sat brooding, looking sad
His cloths were black and gray and his heart was a hole
And the only thing ‘twas darker than his mind was his soul
On the thirteenth of the month he would adjourn unto a tomb
In an old forgotten graveyard under darkness of the gloom
He’d commence to crank the handle of a tiny music player
And then the strains of Moonlight Sonata would drift upon the air
Somewhere from the blackness an apparition would appear
A radiant diaphanous figure who was draped in gossamer
She would float about the graves as little Mason Morbid crooned
“White Lady, white lady, tell me of your doom.”
“It was in the dead of winter and the snow was falling down
Like little drops of clouds to form a blanket on the ground.
The people of the village were all huddled with each other
And the young Reverend Smithe had stopped by to pray for Mother.”
“He sat and read his Bible and then he joined us in our meal
Then he told my worried Father how his faith would help her heal.
He was smitten by my beauty and I was taken by his charm
Before I knew what happened, he had lured me to the barn.”
“The passions of the flesh overcame the strictures of the mind
The reverend’s Puritan values gave way to pleasures for a time.
I was left defiled and the guilt would take its toll
Darkness and depression were like weights upon my soul.”
“Consumed by misery and ashamed for being so beguiled
But the real scandal was when I found that I was with child.
And all about the gossip started that descended upon me
The Reverend Smithe could not be charged, it must be sorcery.”
“They drug me through the village with curses that were vile,
Accused me of witchcraft and held a mockery of a trial.
And so it was, betrayed, abused and blighted in the soul,
I was made to pay the reverend’s sin on the rope of the gallows’ pole.”
Little Mason Morbid heaved a heavy sigh of grief
The White Lady’s tragedy was sad beyond belief
He watched her go back to her grave then he mused aloud,
“Life is futile and so unfair, and we are wrapped within her shroud.”