Jeans at a wedding

To be joined in communion
A man and a woman
The high judge, the host, of
The masked ball.

White-lie purity hand in hand
With youth encased. They take
Their place, luckily one is exempt
From the chase.

Sin-sweet steps on the
Hallowed ground. And then
She gets there.
Her form is shaking submission
Ignorant to the childish omissions
The cowardly conditions, her tears
They blur into wistful visions.

And then the cold grey mountain, man
Rises to meet his woman.
The actors, they seem to withhold
Their breath. As the scene unfolds
The studio audience laughs and scolds.

The moment of truth. The vows
Are said. Both repeat what is allowed.
Their throats constrict and don't ask how
The deed almost done.

And then pandora opens her box
And the holy circles, finite in meaning
Seem the mock me. Snarling, gleaming.
As if they know, their shine will go
And tarnished gold, bursting, teeming
With things unsaid. And seeming
So lovely.

Exchange of possession. Equality bound
And sometime in the future,
Broken.

Exchange of tokens.
That's all they are.

And then, it's done.
The curtains, they fall. Hiding
The dusty light. It would have
Traveled far, otherwise...

In my eyes:
The moment of truth. The vows
Are dead. Both repeat, no longer proud.
Their throats constrict and cannot complete the task. Now.
They must bow, the performance over.

And I sit.
In my bright blue jeans.
Daring to be disapproved.
Due defiance, ripping at the seams.