Please Read About My Echo

We spoke today, and we haven't spoken in a while, Mom is in the bedroom, and Dad in the basement, I'm on the bed- crying like a child, and although all windows are shut, a wind filters in, bringing in that old echo the silent echo, of cemetaries, when the dead echo their name, abuse, abuse, abuse, "we lived once and were children, but then we were abused, and became adults", so I'm crying like a child, and know abuse, but life went on and scars were fused, refused to let the pain sink in, and abused my verse, and never wrote with my own hand just a dead man's eyes and the hatred of my father who knew abuse, and gave it like a regifted toaster at a wedding, a toast that's burnt with obligation, and consistency, always burnt, abused, crushed, ashes as those cherished china vases where the dead poets smugly held their noses high as I sniffed their poetry, laid to rest in that cemetary where the wind blew, and came home, and left a gentle music as I spoke with my mom, and my dad stayed in the basement and pretended he cared I was home, and I'm not crying anymore, because we heard the echo and didn't ignore it today.