"Burnt Rose"

My pretty Rose died late last year,

was killed so suddenly, a drunk driver

rear-ended her Jetta at

the intersection of

Myrtle and Highway 70.

The impact broke her small neck instantly,

car exploded in a gasoline fireball,

she sizzled to a crisp right in the driver’s seat,

never knew what hit her, poor thing.

Coroner said the body was unrecognizable,

didn't even look human, a jumbled mass of cooked flesh and bone,

mangled smoked meat, a hairless head,

her gorgeous innocent face disfigured, twisted,

burnt into mush, a snuffed beauty

gone way before her time, silenced.

They gave me her gold cross necklace at the wake,

all her family and friends were there,

I sobbed uncontrollably, what a horrible mistake!

Was she really gone, never coming back home to me ever again?

I was haunted by these unanswered questions

to a point of total despair, most days I could barely

get out of bed, I wanted to be dead myself,

to be lying somewhere with my sweet darling Rose.

A dried dark stain marks the tragic spot,

motorists drive by as if nothing happened there,

the melted tarmac still breaks my heart,

I cry for endless hours, eyes stay perpetually red,

I never got  the chance for a proper farewell,

just handed her jewelry instead. Life is so unfair,

robbed me of the only person I ever truly loved,

I wanted so badly to bring her back, if just for a minute.

Oh, to kiss her parted lips, to smell her fresh flowery fragrance,

to hear her angelic voice singing sweet nothings to me once again!

Oh, I would give anything on Earth to hold her close one more time!

She was so genuine, a sublime lover and confidant, my friend.

When I thought of my good pal Billy Tarver, thoughts of

Rose’s revival crept into my aching brain, for he was

a Master of the Black Arts, a descendent of sorcerers.

I had heard he helped the brokenhearted with such matters,

he spoke in archaic tongues, did weird things with bugs and animal parts,

burned candles, practiced primeval religious masses, and buried

leather-wrapped carved figures in cemeteries.

Most people shied away from such scary stuff., but,

I was beginning to warm to an idea to bring Rose back,

No matter what the cost, even if it meant my own salvation.

Billy’s personal specialty was bringing back the dead,

loved ones from the grave.

It didn't matter if they were

resting in Heaven or

being tormented in Hell, he would beg

in cryptic words for the sacred powers to release them.

Some thought this was a sin, not me, I wanted to win my baby back.

Unlearned about out such things, I thought I’d give it a try,

gave him the long distance call, implored him to help me.

Billy was ever so happy to oblige my desire,

told me to come out next Friday, the 13th,  said it would

be a great evening to spawn spirits and similar things,

maybe, even have a ritual bonfire.

Strangely, my stomach felt a bit queezy,

goose bumps raised on my skin, something

deep inside my core was telling me not to do it.

Silly me, I thought what the heck, those

feelings didn’t matter to me, I wanted

my Rose back here with me, together again.

Billy asked me to bring my bedroll, said

I’d be staying the night.

All right then, game on!

I cranked up my F150, threw my backpack in the back,

and, throttled fast down the black ribbon

toward the sunset, I did not want to drive in the dark.

Billy lived way out in the countryside, several

miles from town or from the nearest neighbor,

hidden deep in the woods, away from other folks,

amongst the moss-covered oaks and sycamores.

As I drove along at breakneck speeds, I remembered

his rooms were filled with magical weird things-

dried frog skins, owl’s feet, amulets of quartz, lemon peels,

corn cobs, bottles of potions, some strange in color,

beeswax candles, pieces of gnarled wood,

ancient scrolls written with mystical runes, surely,

they were secret incantations to conjure the dead.

The sun was getting pretty low when I swung my truck

into his weed-covered pebbled driveway, I could

see through the trees that the moon would be full.

I thought, “Oh boy, a perfect night for a ritual séance!”

I hopped up the steps onto his wooden-floored porch,

nervously, I knocked on the screen door, called, “Billy, you home?”

The hairs on my neck rose as a cool wisp of wind passed,

The whippoorwills sung their low notes in between the deafening crickets,

singing their own natural tune, it seemed odd at the time.

I heard a garbled, “Come on in John!”  

And, I did, entering quickly into his house,

the rusty hinges screeched like birds of prey,

the door ominously slammed

shut behind me with a loud smack,

as if a crypt had suddenly been closed.

It was not very inviting, spooky in fact, but

I was looking forward to getting on with

the business of speaking with the dead,

to bringing my sweetheart Rose back.

Billy had wasted no time, he was serious,

his living room was ablaze with burning

candles of all sizes, placed in a circle,

a pentagram was drawn on the floor

in red and black chalk, feathers were

tied in a bundle around his neck.

As if on cue, I sat on folded legs in

the middle of the magical surreal sight.

Billy never once looked at me, he just

stared into space as if he saw something I didn’t.

Heavy wick smoke hung in the stale air,

he was in a groove moving his hands in the air,

speaking Celtic rhyme, a special prayer request to

the primordial spirits to bring my Rose back.

I was entranced, fell into a cloudy mind haze,

drifted in and out of reality to the drone of

Billy’s unknown speech, a screech owl outside

reminded me this was all for real,

I knew Rose would be in my arms, soon.

Moonlight spilled in through the paned window.

Strangely, something still seemed all wrong with this,

I could feel my senses were heightened, on edge,

thinking about Poe and his Monkey’s Paw,

I was filled with dread, had I made a terrible mistake?

My head twirled, spun in a million directions,

my throat was like gritty sandpaper, I could not swallow.

Good God, how would Rose look if she came back?

Would she be as beautiful as I remembered her, or

would she be a bloody, mangled, burnt-skeletal mess?

I confess, my heart skipped wildly, not with love,

it was sheer terror that rankled my soul to the marrow.

The scene went deathly quiet when

we heard footsteps on the planks

just outside the closed front door—

Rose was up on the porch, I could heard her voice cry,

Whispering my name, groaning how much she had missed me!

I gasped at the thought of her horrible apparition,

brought back to the living at my own request to

visit my grieving soul, to bring me out of my sad, dark hole.

Beads of sweat rolled down my temples,

I wanted to go home, but, I remained frozen,

glued to the floor, hypnotized by the candle light,

speechless and frightened, unable to breath,

my heart pounded, seemed to explode out of my chest.

Billy smelled my fear with his special senses.

Quickly, he aborted his conjury,

asked for Rose to be

returned to her final resting place.

He knew I was ill and felt quite sickly,

that I did not want to see Rose’s  scarred face, or

her shriveled burned body.  

The footsteps dissolved.

He rose and slowly opened the closed door to emptiness,

we stood there alone, staring out into the dark night,

a chilly breeze carried Rose’s fragrance between us,

the sickly sweet smell of death rose from the two bloody footprints

we saw glistening in the full moonlight.

A shiver shocked my spine,

I caught my choppy breath,

brought myself back to calmness,

my dazed mind raced back to better days,

when Rose sang simple love lullabies to me,

we used to roll together in the clover,, 

our hearts were meant for each other,

lives bound forever.

It was then I realized,

some things are better off dead.

Rest in Peace

my Darling Rose, 'till

we meet again.

Amen.

Poem by Strider