There is a lady in white who walks this world Eternal.
Slender and kind, she mournfully glides across the misty earth in early morning's tide, to the
River and back, searching for her love long lost.
Her face is smooth, perfect, as smooth as the most fragile filagree. Across the fields she roams,
a silent spectre to latter days and old wounds never to be healed. Stark white is the bridal gown she wears, now a burial
shroud. A martyr at her own hand is she, having sealed her Fate by the heartbeat and pulse of the icy Holston.
Empty is the house, her home, now stands, ever watchful of her vigil. Clutching her hands to
her face, she cries out for long ago, when she knew life and sensation, when she knew her other, taken from her. These sad
sobs are her mantra, her chant. Blades of dewy gras do not bend in her early wake. From the river, a cold gray hand beckons
to her heart.
" Come to me, my Love."
Wintering in her silent reverie, she flies to the water's edge, hoping to hold her One again.
The hand is not there.
It is never there.
She is alone again, alone eternal.
Bowing her head, familiar scene, she walks, the river passing through her toes and delicate tiny
feet as it crawls up her legs, like the caress of her lover, a cold hand against her transparent flesh, making her dress train
float like a dead streamer on the icy rapids, consuming her breast now, her neck, her chin.
She vanishes into the water, consumed by its black depths uncaring as the moonlight pales her
grave and seperates two