Her wedding feels like chalk lines
marking the demise of freedom.
Love is blind until all the pretty lace
expectations get torn into dreamer’s compost.
Conflated vanilla odes written about
‘til death do us part’ never mention
death can come with its coffin while
the heart still beats, or the spirit can starve
on the gruel of monotony.
Candor bites its tongue, worries words
into origami butterflies when it is the lone
voice of reason in the hymn notes of glitter.
Like an induced birth piano keys urge
her heels to walk an aisle she questions,
yet fears to deny because a day of assumptions
is so beautifully candlelit she doesn’t want to be its
failure.
“We are each our own devil, and we make this world our
hell.”
― Oscar Wilde
©Susie Clevenger 2022
