Sister,
you are daughter to our father.
Set in your ways
of practicality and reason.
Frigid, you are hunks of ice
clinking in my glass.
Never one to walk
barefoot over fire.
Rather, safe in your tower
of solitude.

Brother,
you are son to our mother.
Perpetually stumbling
down steps
               of regret
                       and carelessness.
Steaming, you are ashes
burning, ripping through the
end of my cigar.
Tirelessly chasing after
momentary balance
of your scales.

Me,
I am both mother and father,
both brother and sister.
Eternally tangled,
my strings of rationality
knotted with my
also impetuous strands.