We were walking home I thought
a peaceful night with fewer sounds than usual.

The owner of these damaged goods
the same, creator of these damaged goods
and though liberated by the arts
and expressed in cryptic codes
my father will remain
by blood
and by sentiment

blood; 'the most sacred' he says
and sentiment of which he cannot see
or perhaps embrace
my candid plea for help echoes against the walls of the deepest of wells
how can you not hear me now? how can you not hear me now my love bounces against your walls of stone?
How densely has your shield been forged after the raids of your youth? Or were they the raids of mine too?

And yet my father will remain
by blood
and by sentiment
And I, the absent daughter in the deepest of wells