to the mausoleum of the final incarceration.
Chains in the skirts, with cuffs on the ankles above glass slippers,
and the veil as the blinding walls of solitary confinement.
Balls-and-chaingang limping towards the altar,
towards the bench to plead the judge, "Not guilty, sire, not guilty."
But no sympathy comes from blind justice --
-- he's jealous of even the fog of sight the bride has.
The sentence is passed, with a jack of the hammer,
with the choking of vows and forcing of rings onto steeled fingers.
Anything past the second knuckle qualifies
as sacred and satisfied by god and all his angels.
So if I sever my finger entirely, scatter the pieces
to the unwashed hogs who can't chew the cud of the two-toed cows,
then is the agreement made null and void?
Faltering on the steps towards the arch of my family name in stone,
to enter in the ring counts as penance and tithe.
A tenth of my peace of mind for your rest at night against the pillows of stripped fowl.
Your robed bones are warmer, O Reaper, than this rooted earth I am entombed in.
I'd rather your sinews than his uncertain and unkept flesh.