Seriously!
We can all pray for laughter.

While your Grandmothers Mother’s eyes
are looking through you.
And some deep truths,
buried in the surface of tradition, are coming home.

Walking down the isle,
and no regrets are growing like a mighty tree.

There is faith
in a die cast so long ago.

Little is not the size of
beauty unfolding into time that tics away in eons being born.

Cost seems like a choice that cannot be mirrored
in the presence of the veil.

The pure price tag for sin is for some other mirage
cursed in a heat born of goodness, gracious.

I can hear the boys and the girls
outside her growing older than a temporary age.

Tears, and a toast so far from this day are fast approaching, are being shed
within the bosom of a bride still new.

Her womb is still dreaming of the push, sweat, and pains that do come
with joy, pleasure, and the rot of trust laughing into the rust of time.

And so the story goes … to what spells each truth’s grave end,
in its own courtroom of the soul.

The blood of so many mothers keep crying the same hope to be born
beyond the thin chained locket of mommy’s tolerance, hips, & skeleton.

Nobody is going to ever own her soul, even if it take a lifetime
to reach its lived becoming within her self.

Maybe the die is not even the fault of love, or even his fault.
Seriously! We can all pray for laughter.

^{© Copyright July 5th 2010 C.C. Arshagra}