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A wedding dress crumpled on the floor,
the lace yellowing as the years pass...
deteriorating,
decomposing,
disappearing.
An army of moths squeal gleefully at the sight,
swarming and feeding on innocence and purity.
This war, like all wars, ends in...
destruction,
decimation,
dilapidation.
Now all that's left is yards of fabric,
holy blankets of silk, chiffon, tulle and lace
crying out in anguish for their lost form.
The dress is in there somewhere
amongst the mourning layers and layers,
but they're too weak to repair it,
the damage is too great...
so
there they remain on the dust covered floor
without structure or form,
clinging to the memory
of sweet perfume and happy tears,
of roses and candles and icing,
of kisses and sighs and laughter,
of soft skin and vowed words.
Their day has come and gone.
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