If we had a daughter,
I'd watch and could not save her,
A heart caught in the silence,
Bound by fate, a quiet slaver.
The emotional torture,
From the head of your high table,
Where words are sharp like daggers,
And love feels weak and unstable.
She’d do what you taught her,
Chasing shadows, always late,
And meet the same cruel fate,
Echoing the past we hate.
So now I’ve gotta run,
Flee from this tangled thread,
To undo the silent damage,
Before our souls are dead.
At least I’ve gotta try,
Even if the world won’t break,
To save her from the darkening sky,
And stop this endless ache.
A poem inspired by labor, a song by Paris Paloma.