for the bride of a tameless drunk.
They perform slight smug ovations,
for a woman's yellow skin freckled in patience,
by arrogant stench the walls become a manicured looking glass,
spouses display mannequin attributes.
Poor bride to be,
happiness only to the woman rose cheek.
She steps in park dust,
ring of heirloom qualities lazy on her finger,
offspring holding fetus carrier glances half compliment,
vicious ignoring of the bride's jubilation.
The drunk stoops,
with exhausted aged youth,
it is not her to fault for this of stagnant futures detriment.
She is the bride, her smile is lasting,
she is the bride, nothing more.
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This one is for the tortured shadows, expectations, and performance, branded on the magnificent, feminine creature by history and custom.