Beware, dearest daughter, beware of the silent ones,
the beautiful ones... for now, they are all but whispers
tempered within the edifice of time.
beware, dearest daughter,
for they are far less merciful... than I

Even in death, my spirit cries out to her
weeping for the youth that was raped...
the innocence that was defiled...
her pale, child-like, porcelain face
now shattered into a thousand tiny fragments
of lifeless beauty...
each reflecting its own horror

I laugh at the mockery and irony of fate...
for she spares no one
as she dances hand in hand with time
she taunts us with her invisible smile
a smile which to me reflects only a mask
a mask which my face no longer wear...

Beware, dearest daughter, beware of the silent ones
beware, dearest daughter,
for they are far less merciful... than I

by D. L. Flow

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