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The veil was singed.
It was not unworthy
as much as it was
just too thin,
to disguise
the unhappiness
in her eyes.
The march
was not of hope,
it was of dread.
The wanton faces sat
for an occasion of spring,
yet the cool breeze of winter
slit their eyes.
A cold hearth.
A matrimony of convenience;
all for the sake of pomp and circumstance.
by melissa rubin
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