Where are you, Father?
Why have you left poor Mary alone?
Oh where have you gone?
I still sit here in the gallery of paintings,
with the disturbed dolls,
and waiting.
Where have you gone, Father?
Why did you leave this world?
Do we disgust you?
Even if we're the feelings inside you?
Where have you gone, Ib?
The rose you hold in your hand is just like me-
though, it's as different, right?
The petals on mine can never wilt;
as you burn my home,
have ever stopped to think?
The dripping paint, the burning canvas,
I'm just a scared little girl- just like you;
I'm not alive, but
I need love
and a purpose.
