It is said a woman's first love is her father.
Her blueprint through a sea of Lothario's and Romeo's.
And sometimes an example of what should be known.
Knowledge offered.
Logic led to to truth, much ignored.
You stroked your ego to the path of bruises.
You were saviour.
You saw emotional wounds much like yours and comforted.
The shrine of your womb his hospice.
Your arms made attempt to rewind time.
You opened heart to need, and soul to hurt.
Your strength became ambrosia placed at lips in comfort, your mind the ground on which battles on pain were fought.
You, became soldier.
Sioux Indian tracker, seeking the path to the balm, for soul.
You fed, through bitterness and anger, disposing of them in displeasure, offering the gift of sweet repose.
He grew stronger.
His heart no longer weighted by steps of parting, his wings emboldened, falls cushioned by your bruised heart.
His feet said prayers to the clouds of morning,
Icarus, safely perched before meeting his demise.
Your spirit left mourning the imprints left behind.
Perhaps ego was the root.
The naïveté of thinking your sacrifice mattered, avoiding the offered sip of truth.
