Chasing Angels from my
Daughter
they mean well, I
suppose
or at least in a
fashion
these creatures of
light;
these creatures of
passion
(passion in the archaic
meaning
being the suffering of
a martyr)
and now also it seems
the pain of my daughter
I wonder what it could
be –
what of the girl that
they see
what they know that I
don't
but reveal it they
won't.
Her tortured
expression,
heading up from
depression
the trembling hands and
the tear-ridden cheeks
and the outbreak of
hives;
the disconfident
streaks
what in her future
could be worse than
these years?
Is the terror of age
an investment of fears?
Oil and blood,
a pentangle of wax
a crudly-shaped figure
of cardboard and tacks
I'll keep them away if
the last thing I see
is taking a knife and
delivering me.
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