I once saw my mother holding her marriage in her hands. It was delicate, with much reverence. She knew that she must be careful not to breathe to heavily for fear of breaking it or scaring it away, but at the same time, refused to leave it so bad that she could scream. Praying to her own messiah, she bribed with soul-less joints, offering her conscience to anything.

My father now waits; waits for something he always knew would never come. He's not sure he believes in anything. And he's not sure he believes in nothing... except himself, and a forgotten, out-of-style sense of principle. He lies awake at night, dreaming of what never happened, continually patient for that one moment when what he's been so anxiously waiting for doesn't come. And in that moment, he will say that he never meant it.

Sometimes breathing only makes it worse.
For those who wait, deathbeds never arrive.
My fingers have found each other and I...
just them.

Raised by wolves, I wander
about the land, seeking bones and
solutions.

Never trying, never failing.