Silver and glitz,
Satin and gold,
Place oozes with joy,
A pearl-laden crowd.
Four men standing.
Grinning like half-eaten moon pies
One holy man, somber and straight.
A fancy woman walks in escorted by her son.
Three chorus girls make their descent, in matching dresses.
A little pink-laden girl with fancy petticoats prances past,
Dragging an uneager pouty boy along.
The crowd murmurs, softly.
The long anticipated song begins.
Everyone stands.
Turns.
Hoping to have a glimpse of the veil-clad princess
Who is hanging on to the suit of her father.
Not me.
I always turn and look at the groom.
That’s the real show.
Are his cheeks alcoholic red?
Does he look like he’s ready to hurl?
Or is he bright-eyed, and bushy-tailed?
Does pride ooze from his eyes as he watches his bride?
This tells me so much about what kind of
Life she will have after the
Big day.
Some sullen sense of solitude:
Perception at its best
The brain I have is cold and shrewd
My rationale: depressed
I search for what I never felt
I'm ripping at the seams
Amidst the heat, my heart will melt
Then, give up on my dreams
I find myself imagine less
Pretending I am fine
Yet, all I bear had borne duress
For, all the blame is mine
What am I now but flesh and bone?
Uneager to pretend
My heart still sings their songs alone
What wasted time they spend...
lovely, yet sad, silently horrified,
as she looks away
in quiet terror,
from the slight sight of the faintest wrinkles
around her eyes there
in the mirror.
to him it's a pointless anxiety,
her worried mumblings
about crow's feet
that on her face she really dreads to see,
a truth that she's so
uneager to meet.
he assures her they're but little, laugh lines,
tints and traces of shared joys,
happy times,
they're just skin-deep hints of deep-seated bliss.
amused, touched she is
by this view of his!
.
Lovely, yet wearied, worried,
she looks away in quiet terror
from the sight of faint wrinkles
around her eyes in the mirror.
He finds it an undue anxiety,
her worry about crow's feet,
a view that she dreads to see,
truth she's uneager to meet.
He tells her they're but laugh lines,
traces of shared joys, happy times,
skin-deep hints of deep-seated bliss.
Amused, touched she is by this view of his!
so lovely , yet wearied and worried,
as she looks away with quiet terror
from the sight of the faintest wrinkles
at the corners of her eyes in the mirror;
he finds it silly, this undue anxiety,
as she mumbles about crow's feet
that on her face she dreads to see,
reflection she is uneager to meet;
he assures her they are but laugh lines,
the true traces of real joys, happy times,
just skin-deep hints of deep-seated bliss,
amused, touched she is by this view of his.
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