"You", he said, "are a terribly real thing in a terribly false world, and that, I believe, is why you are in so much pain." - Emilie Autumn, The Asylum for Wayward Girls.

My tongue never tasted silken eloquence
                        slipping as wisdom flavored whimpers
Bitter and sweet simultaneous harmonies.  

I listened instead to my mother's song. Filling rain gutters with her existence,
                          packed and muted by patchwork quilted leaves
I heard her throat humming gentle, distant lightning.

                 I saw my mother dancing
and her body boldly burst through apathetic air
in a way her eyes could never flicker with anything but regret
                though she called it nostalgia.

Strangers say I'm Father's mind and Mother's eyes
but they never heard her precious sighs and the way they deafened us.