die more deaths than you and I, but are revived.
The cadence of the wedding march, wives in the lead,
drowns out the paternal shoutings on horseback.
The groom peers shamelessly at the mane,
wanting not to affect his soon-to-be benefit.
The bride, instinctively, throws hers in all ways,
never showing more or less of the toll taken.
Vows, to be broken then mended, convene here,
shoulder to shoulder, with faith and mirth to
pound a shallow drumbeat, sing a genuine song.
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