Born December 25, 3:35 in the waking hours,
Screaming in the foreign, but essential, air:
A blotched little dahlia, most precious of Heaven's flowers,
I was hers right then, right there.
Pressed to my unworthy heart, she fathoms me wholly,
Regarding my demons who grovel and creep.
A tabula rasa, absolving my sins from Elysium, solely,
Till disarmed at her altar, I weep and I weep.
For her, God's smallest of messengers, my savior, my daughter,
I abandon my wickedness to darkened decay.
Fate grants me one purpose, for even angels need fathers,
To hold her and promise her "I'm here to stay."
Now I lay her down to sleep,
And give to her my soul to keep.
If she should die before she wakes
I forfeit, hell my soul to take.
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