The Daughter

What power is grasped in smaller hands.
So infused with boundless convictions,
Dreams are mere stepping stones
Under the feet of the innocent.

Already our lustful eyes crave that fire;
The righteous stars burning in her eyes.
Without burden of worry or time for regret,
She speak in blossoms and thinks in love.

Time has not corrupted,
Pain has not poisoned,
Fear has not stolen,
All the promises of childhood from her.
Yet...

But in that surreal state of purity;
The greatest ironies are at play.
Infinite freedom is placed as a glimmer
In her small hands
But innocence over her eyes.
So her soul travels freely,
As dreams often do,
Toward an inevitable defeat.

And standing here in my quiet visage,
I cannot save myself from sorrow.
My weathered eyes full well know
This sweet child's fate.
Like a bubble wrapped in rainbow shimmers,
Falling, descending slowly to the earth;
Suddenly the dream will burst;
Lying in ruins upon the ground.

Like the snake lying to Eve,
The ground is ravenous for her beauty.
Even the best of us cannot suppress
The demons calling for her blood.
Comedians will amuse themselves
With her death.
Poet's will lament the tragedy
Of another fallen angel in words
That can never compare to her face.
And I will cover a silent tear in shame.

For you see,
In the very moment of her initiation
Into this mortal death,
We sacrifice another daughter
On the altars of our sick addiction.

Oh prophet of doom,
Bare witness to another dream's demise.
It pains me deeply to know that
She will look into our eyes with
Burning tears of unfamiliar pain and confusion.
The stars bleeding from her eyes,
Melting unto the ground,
She will cry out to the faceless crowds.
But no answer will save her.
No explanation will ever make it right again.

My dear daughter...
I am so so sorry.