It is not your fault.
You only know that,
it is in your nature to
know pain
like the back of your hand
as you administer it

To know,
children, little girls
are to be docile dolls
in which resentment can be  
hidden under the dress
that's the perfect color
in the tulle, we twirl
and do this dance
it is but, fate's job
for the strings to be cut

The puppeteer, songstress must go down. Her children
to be reborn as the next soprano.

You have ached and
your agony was ignored
so you demonstrated it
you sang with the voice
of the unheard

and somewhere, perhaps,
like the phantom you are
when we both sing, it is the same song
and our throats warble at the same time
in unison
our voices are capable of more love
then we were for each other