I still let some clichés crush

me with truth and the ancient myths of

ancient men go on unfolding always

Your mother did her damage you did

your own no one thinks they will

but we all become Freud’s children

We all are starving for the dream life

carried in us somewhere strange how these

passing scenes don’t feel like fairy tales

Rotting tragedies that never die haven’t

you learned we all want Mr. Hyde

in charge of every pain we cause

Take your mother she was not

formed to nurture neither am I I want

to know whose fault it is not ours

Someday I will plot all the chasms she left

in you add you to the maps in this quest for

good and evil but I cannot heal or condemn

And Procne did you believe your love could

end in such grave crimes love is not enough

your wings go on whispering inside of me.