Lullaby
Flowers in the field, feathers on the wind,
shadows on the spill, makers on the mend.
Filling the wells, flowing o'er the fetters,
under the tills, to the ink of your letters.
A mind softly snoring to the rhythmic sound of your voice
where nothing can enter, or exit by choice
and the branches wave fraying arms within my mental mirror
in their insubstantial world where I can bare appear.
A breezy wisp comes down in sweep, discovers mind, discovers me
and wakes me from my gentle sleep, my fading wish, my memory.
Such little time exists to dwell, on cushioned waters, no will to rise.
The world is made of harsher stuff, than gentle lullabies.
shadows on the spill, makers on the mend.
Filling the wells, flowing o'er the fetters,
under the tills, to the ink of your letters.
A mind softly snoring to the rhythmic sound of your voice
where nothing can enter, or exit by choice
and the branches wave fraying arms within my mental mirror
in their insubstantial world where I can bare appear.
A breezy wisp comes down in sweep, discovers mind, discovers me
and wakes me from my gentle sleep, my fading wish, my memory.
Such little time exists to dwell, on cushioned waters, no will to rise.
The world is made of harsher stuff, than gentle lullabies.