Sweet, little mortician's daughter, drowning in her pool of hate. Always said she loved me, just before she left. Waltzes in at four in the morning wearing black lace tights, laddered top-to-bottom, left-to-right. Sour, twisted mortician's daughter, lying in a drunken state. Always said she hated me, when she would return. Exits promptly at ten at night, wearing her last pair of black lace unladdered tights, barely hiding her teenage legs. Gifted with her beauty, killing her inside. Pure-blood mortician's daughter, shadow of her former self. Mixed-blood mortician's daughter, sitting on the shelf. Crazed by hate, deprived by love, falling, sloping, dying, crying, screaming mortician's daughter, alone.

Mortician works all day, all night, daughter never sees him. Sleeps on piles of paperwork that crinkle in the night. Daughter's home, sleeping in a cold bed- or so he thinks. He stays late to finish files, she walks out to play a while. Darkness friend to both but never commonplace, always unpredictable to what the night will bring. World will sleep around them, while they will work away. Dragging, scraping, crawling through the dark, losing all sight in the misty night of summer's winter.

Men will come and go, mortician's daughter carries on, no time to take it slow. Patients come but never leave, mortician carries on, no time, no place to go. So similar they seem, but it is all a lie, never could they be more on opposing sides. Daughter likes to rebel, and fight against some cause, mortician likes to work never stops, no rest and no pause. Staggering on the sidewalk, falling in the gutter, mortician still unaware, working in a flutter.

Hold a buttercup underneath her chin, shine the yellow dot emblazoned on the skin. He is not the same mortician, colour never shows, another patient comes, a late one finally goes. Daughter watches her dreams burn before her eyes. Mortician sees the bodies burn, smoke's shooting to the skies. Everything comes crashing down right on top of her, fragile, little, broken, sweet mortician's girl. Wind blows strong, paper flies around, all his work is ruined, like falling dominoes set up in a line. Crashing, tumbling down onto the ground, taking mortician with them. Both sit there, defeated by demons bigger than imagination gives power to create. She has time to speak to him, and he to speak to her.

They are free. Mortician is mortician no longer, the past he left behind. Daughter doesn't leave the house and stay out for the night. Both can sit together, finally the same. Neither need old secrets any longer. Daughter's future seems bright, fully educated, studying away following mortician father's footsteps. Father works shifts of early hours, works from ten 'til two, comes home to care for daughter, the way that father's do. House that mortician daughter and father live, filled with love they share. Garden full of flowers laid in rings and squares. Mud now turned to soil, rich and freshly turned. Life renewed both in and out father-daughter world.