She is standing,
But so am I.
Yet she still towers over me.
Elevated by the stilts of disappointment.
Mother. Daughter. Expectations are higher still.
Her eyes are worn,
Set deep in rolling hills and valleys.
Vast across her pallid face.

What will they say?
What does it matter?
But of course it matters.
Things like this don’t just happen.
But don’t they?

The crevice widens, engulfing what bridges remain.
Expelling an eternal tension.
Mother. Daughter. Hopes are diminished.
How can anything be produced
When the gears lack grease and expedite rust?
What is present in promise
Is purely dependent on perception.

Hands are clasped together
We are transported gaily around the circle.
The drums beat inconsistently,
attempting to portray the steady steps.
However not even the pounding noise
Can fill the holes left empty by silences,
By lack of compassion.

The roles are cast.
The method actors begin,
Each line and motion more hollow than the one before.
Mother. Daughter. Parts are simply played.
The pat on the back is forced;
The cringe that follows is the only thing that is real.
The spine convulses,
Feeling more than the heart might ever.