A place to rest my head
A cupboard of sorts
Where I would rather be
Instead
In the last hour of my wake
When darkness falls
On drifting eyes
Upon those hands
That spread your
Lies
A breath I take
To calm my rapid heart
You place that hand
Upon my head
And whisper things
I don’t want said
My eyes are closed
So they won’t see
When darkness falls
I no longer
Belong to me
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Comments
Because on the one hand, one has to embrace a lullaby. They need that comfort, and sometimes we embrace lies for comfort. On the other hand, they are sweet "nothings", aren't they? And to fall for them--fall is a good word. Becoming helpless, enslaving ourselves to the lullaby-er.
But sometimes we fall for those sweet nothings by choice, too. Because the lullaby-er is someone we'd like to bind ourselves to.
I can't really rave about the technical aspects of this poem. It's not as strong as some of your others in rhythm, rhyme or flow. But it certainly makes me think. Hard. If that was your only goal, good job. And I hope onto something about your intent. Because your "..." as artist commentary (as per usual) leaves a lot more open than my rants on what I meant to say.
--
"Anything worth doing is worth doing poorly." —G.K. Chesterton
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