By Dave Tierney A white dress caresses her soft squeezing hands, Alone at the altar, where she still stands, Heart throbbing. Not sobbing. She patiently waits. In deafening silence sending prayers to the fates, Slowly. Softly. a figure appears to answer her why, She’s confused at this news, It must be a lie, Her horror… like thunder, under moonlit skies The whispers of Death, moisten her eyes, Forgive her her sins. For she’s lost all hope, Separation dictates, she ligate the rope.
Molly Cantwell 
Daragh De Klein