myra {wanderer/fin; cb}

“Ex silentio”

I spoke in a tongue that of my own,
With the seed of doubt in my heart still sown.
There was no world in which I could
Set aside evil and think for good.
The word of the hopeless were there arising,
I took stitch of a needle and stuck to sympathizing.
For the colors of my heart were sure to show—
Whites and blacks—grey not to forgo.
This world but a spectrum and yet I was caught
Somewhere between the foreword and afterthought.
My mother, she whispered with the hint of despair,
“There’s no room for me here, but hear my prayer.
Myra, you’re named for the silence that lies,
In the space between your father and I.
He loves you, yes, but don’t you see?
He traded one treasure for another, gained you in place of me.”
Last word on the lips of a dying figure,
She grasped tight to her father with vigor.
But he was not to return sympathy,
His wife lost to the cold rule of tyranny.
A daughter of five lost her heart in that grave,
A word never spoken— she was not to be saved.
A choice to be made by the heart of the strong,
She whistled for the wind; fell in time with that song.
Her mind closed away to the eye of them all,
Her father never asked, wondered or called.
For in his mind he was set in the rules of his ways,
He lost not only a wife, but a daughter that day.
For she may have had language on the tip of her tongue,
But the image of graveyards full still stung.
Her father would question her morals in time,
She simply said nothing, not prior to the end of this rhyme.