My Daughter Hates Me Because Of What Her Mother Did To Her
You seem to have a nicer Room—
Than I—have, in the Sky—
Yours—has Curtains made of Lies—
And mine—of Memory—
The House—you call it—Sanctuary—
Was built—of borrowed Tears—
I mortgaged—Heaven’s smallest Grace—
To pay—through haunted Years—
My Sister—slept where Love had lain—
The Sheets—still warm with Trust—
And I—a Stranger—to my Name—
Slept—in the Street—with Dust—
My Daughter—turned her Face away—
Her Silence—like a Bell—
Rings—every Night—in rooms I’ve lost—
And tolls—what Words can’t tell—
Forgiveness—is a fickle Guest—
That never—answers—twice—
It knocks—upon the wronged Man’s Door—
Then—passes—into Ice—
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