It should have been a white dress,
Pristine, clean,
Something to bedazzle in
And be dazzling.
It should have started me with purity,
A solemn vow of how
Two syncopated hearts
Could find a common part.

But no.  She had to hit him,
Bruise his eye.  Lie.
His mother called her whore,
He agreed, and more.
The dress, a silken objet d'art,
Set upon and torn apart,
My symbol: shattered.
Like I never mattered.

Her father made them see me through,
His money dangled
Carrot-like before the groom,
...just another taste of doom.
And I, malformed and maimed,
Am stained.
In sickness and in health,
Hanging on to Daddy's wealth.

It should have been a white dress
And a sunny day.
Now love's away,
And I lay me down to rest.

The End

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