There sets, a prima donna
hat covers black hair
somber eyes stare into space…
a Victorian collared dress
embraced head, a set position
tight corset threatens.
She hates the stiffness
restricting her voice
Julian due at eight bells…
“Act like a lady, not a sloven.”
Butler’s a spy, reports to Mother…
she loves gossip about me.
Mother scrutinizes Gloria’s suitor
wants a prominent caller
she rules the roost…
no mercy for Gloria’s feelings.
It’s a family birthright tradition…
no-one refuses her choice.
Gloria’s love waits in the shadows…
a time will come to escape and disappear
fulfill the commitments to love, honor, and obey
as long as they both shall live…
break control of a horrible custom
binding one’s heart of real love.
Writer of this poem Barbara Kasey Smith – Copyright 2014 – Use by Permission Only.