Clad in the pale pink light
Streaming in from the utmost window
She cast her eye on the lost souls
Dressed in their best garbs
Hand stitched with secrets
Complete with their own counterfeit
Silver linings
The women as false as their powdered faces
The men as obscene as politics allowed them
In this dated scene
Of a common dinner party
The type found in old Austen novels
The modern calendar
May attempt to state differently
But the number of sunrises
And sunsets
Cannot alter the simple truth
That we are all just performing our civilities
All the while contesting those ancestry traits
That still fester under the surface.
-E.K
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