o love
i might be leaving soon
i see shapes and signs
between the stars
where once was dark

o love
i remember this
from my sweetest dreams
but i’m woken up
always before it ends

o love
sing me to sleep
with a midnight voice
and i’ll be yours
endlessly

The nightingale
sang a song
of sorrow
that the night
changed to a lullaby
every time
lovers wished upon
the stars

Your voice was the poetry
My ears were longing to hear,
The soft-spoken words my heart
Ached to read.

It was the lullaby
That sang me to sleep,
The sound that carried me
Into the idyllic grounds of dreams.

My hands reached out to them,
Always pleading,
My heart cried, all for them,
Always bleeding.
But my eyes were shut,
They couldn’t see that
it was me who was hurt.
Hurt, deeper than I thought I ever could be,
But there was no one, ever for me.
People came in and went by,
And I sat there singing lullabies.

Lullabies, telling the tales of
Friendships turned into hatred,
Of loves lost to the fated.
Tears shedding, as my cry deceases,
I put myself back into pieces.
Days went by since I last saw the sun,
But the love for them was never really undone.
Today, when I sit here beside the sunrise,
I see myself in the skies.
Leaning onto the window,
I sing some lullabies,
And this time, they are of
New love found and the beautiful sunshine.

You have brows like bushes,
eyelashes like webs.
Shoulders like a steep cliff,
arms like bridges.
Ears like deep wells,
endless and bottomless
in sight.

Snout filled with cigarette grain,
and the breaths
you seem to hide away.

You have hair like a little girl's soft eyelash,
falling down upon her innocent cheek.

Your chest heaves;
I am lost listening to the pulse that brings you back to me.

You lay like a child;
I do not feel the need to engulf you.

I allow you to exist just so.
In your land of banana hammocks,
and bittersweet stars.

I graze the freshly cut grass
of your chin.
I see the lines of shadow
remain permanent on the concrete,
and my mind goes on in complacency.

Gradually -
I keep tumbling,
further down the hills of
dead grass
and unspoken ink,
to join you.

Has it really been this long?
Being a child that never cared
falling asleep to that old song,
the lullaby my mother shared.

Have these four years really passed?
Since I felt that aching rise
around my chest, hoping it lasts
by telling all those little lies.

Has it really been four months?
I saw it happen, all over then
letting the bullet slightly pass,
right through my heart, to softly rend.

Has it really been four weeks?
Since the wound had opened up
again, with the slightest leaks
of light, in my darkened mind.

And yet... I find it quite disturbing,
the fact, that I've been holding up
from suffering in brighter dark,
I guess it's time.
That makes you strong...

The crows called to me this morning
So early it was dark
They told me that they missed me
Their song met my insanity
And, together, we sung a lullaby
Under a blood red moon
The perfect ******