a bride walks down the aisle,
staggers on one foot,
& you can hear a poet
stutter like her footsteps at every step.
she hides her form underneath her veil,
wears her father’s corpse on her face
like the holy candle praying for a future.

when the piano starts to play, we can

hear frogs croaking to an unfamiliar rhythm, from
deep down throaty laughs of a certain someone
or people

alongside ruptured chords.
we all stand,
not sure what the bridegroom’s lips call
to the altar.

Bad Blood by ad_poet