The older sister

A crown of duty, heavy and bright, Upon my head, both day and night. I'm parent number three, it would seem, Living out on someone else's dream. The blame falls on me like gentle rain, A constant, softly humming pain. 'Sorry,' I whisper, a familiar tune, Beneath the sun and silver moon. I'm sorry,' rolls right off my tongue, Even when a different song is sung Perfection's path, I'm meant to tread, With nary a thought for my own head. My choices dwindle, small and few, Like fading flowers, tinged with blue. My choices few, a path pre-set, A future planned, I haven't met For younger ones, I must give all, Answer their every beck and call. My wishes? A whimsical, faint star, Hidden behind a closing door by far. Sacrifice sparkles, a gem I must wear, For siblings I love, beyond compare. My dreams and desires, like feathers take flight, Lost in the whimsy of day and of night. But oh, the curse, a funny thing, It makes me dance, it makes me sing. Though burdens heavy, spirits soar, For in this role, I find much more.