Dead roses bowed in silent homage around a wishing well
where a withered bride watered fragile flowers
with wept tears, flowing down fragile stems.
It was not that flora could not flourish in the area.
In years past the secluded alcove had been
popular amongst young lovers, who sauntered through
Eden; eager to taste that fruit which was once forbidden.
At present, the path leading to the graveyard of so many wishes
was marked by a trail of dead, brown grass
leading to a wood that is remembered only by ghosts
still haunting the place.
The wishing well has long gone dry
and if there were a penny in the bottom
none could now tell,
for its depths have been forgotten
with those whom had built it.
The bride often wondered if all the
old masons whom constructed the well
were dead, along with the lovers who’s
names were etched into the brick for
she never saw another soul come to make
a wish like she made each day, shortly after the
She did not toss well earned money into a fanciful hole
for love’s fleeting fancy,
nor as a remembrance of
the passing of her dead husband.
In truth, he was alive and thriving
but she had no idea he would tarry on so long,
each of her prayers to go on before him
had gone unanswered day after day.