Victorian--Blood

Marie It was the dress which makers called so bold Tightly the flowers does she hold Her thin painted lips quiver in fright Shimmer does the light fabric into the night A heavy grey wig sits upon her head Her once beautiful face is dusted with lead Necklaces of pearls are positioned with care Gloves to the elbows, the lace to not tear The black French mark under her nose There are satin shoes squishing her toes Her lungs are pressed; she can barely breathe All she wants is for well-wishers to leave She is sick of the people, gasping in joy This era's beauty is worth no boy But her mother would be so distressed She has to do i