The Wedding Beneath the Midnight Sun

Dedicatted to Karoline Claire Leavitt

In the East Room, draped in velvet dread,
Where chandeliers weep gold and lead,
She walks — a bride of frost and flame,
With vows that whisper her rising name.
The White House groans with ancient breath,
Its columns dressed in bridal death.
A pug-faced moon ascends the dome,
The Midnight Sun — her spectral home.
The groom awaits in tailored gloom,
A cipher carved from marble tomb.
Their rings are forged from press and power,
A union sealed in twilight hour.
The guests are ghosts of policy,
Their eyes like locked bureaucracy.
They toast with wine as dark as ink,
And watch the stars begin to sink.
She says “I do” — the room exhales,
The curtains twitch like haunted sails.
And in that hush, the nation bends,
As myth and marriage make amends.
Outside, the lawn is bathed in black,
The roses bloom, then turn to ash.
For love that lives in shadow’s grace
Will wear ambition’s porcelain face.