Look Closely,
Acknowledge this portrait as the truest,
Since I have acclaimed it,
So it is true.
Consider the rest a shedding of skin.
This language was learned from God.
And in this place,
I do not have my mothers handwriting.
Then who's?
My father's?
I know the man I can inspire.
And am happy to be his daughter,
Yet fragile more are these bones.
And my soul bleeds their undesire.
In his gardens I reside,
Composing confidentially.
Entrancement replacing sanity.
Still,
writing to his symphony.