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No Wedding Day
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Held up by the strings
and the ragged chains
of expectation.
This is the
last vein to burst,
the last root
to dry.
Keep your milk
and music for
the moon – mother
of dreams, mother
of personal metaphor.
The marriage ring has taken
its final curve.
From now on, only
a gypsy smile,
only a trumpet blow
for the wanderer’s freedom.
Clouds cave over the sun
like a fist. Children play on
the green-pink hills
as all disappointments line up
on the wave of their laughter
to be killed or
pardoned.
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Copyright © 1995 by Allison Grayhurst
amazon.com/author/allisongrayhurst
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First published in “Madness Press Muse LLC” May 2018
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You can listen to the poem by clicking below:
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