Farther from the sun, a father and son. The soft moon chasing after, the sun running away; a lunacy of circles that separates the darkest of space. Stars hanging like a collage of reflecting mirrors, pieces that once radiated beauty. If by chance, the moon changes to blood and the sky spills its red, the willing time, will tell in time, if when all is too late.

I was the first face you saw when you were born, you were bald as my hair ran black. Now yours the last face I saw before I died, your hair ran black, as I was bald.

I know an alcoholic is the worse, but sometimes I wonder if it's better to have a drinking father that lives at home, or a drinking father, that never comes around.

And she looked upon the mirror that was given as a gift. She hated everything about it, from the circular size of it, to the color, and the wooden frame that held it in place. But mostly, she hated looking at herself. Especially into this one that had a scratch on its glass surface, which would reflect back to her face. And as she looked, it would cut her as the words her father would often say, in telling her she was ugly.

The thing I miss most from home, is having a home.