Deep in the night the quiet voice of my father speaks
A voice that carries into the dark cloud that feeds
into my days, how wretched I think I must be,
That even my own mother couldn’t love me.
“I always said that it was not the end of the world,
but I possibly never meant it more than now.
I see you poised in your corner, struggling to hold on
and cannot help but ask you to let go…
Let go of all the angst, those feelings you harbor
telling you to wreck revenge, in the end,
all that remains are you and I. You and I
under a perfect moon, an ocean where waves never cease.
Take my hand, we can surf those breakers together
under perfect skies etched on perfect seas,“ the timbre
stills the darkness threatening to burst in me
in sharp shards of glass, how wretched could I be?