A lie and a lullaby

Sung by the harpy hare and her crown.

Where has the mother buried all her children,

Show me to cry out into the sky if there is no sun to see into the bottom of my soul,

To reach in a pull out the flesh of the innocent from a rabbits corpse,

Underneath the giant willow tree there is

A weeping lady

Who prays to the roots to pull her up even if she can’t see the sky that holds the tree up by the fruit of the labour of her children.

We make a choice to lay and rest

And to wake.

Are we not grateful for every little choice we actually get to take?

Is there no justice for the wicked to be mourned by the hands of the blessed into the hearts of the rotten?

Neath the bones is a heart

That pumps life to the crust beneath her feet,

I can hear the voices of the lost ones who found solice inside the ground that birthed them,

Returned to the womb for a second try.

I bite at the hand that feeds the jaws of the enemy that bit me first.

Pity and poetry.

Feel sorrow for the plant as it is cut from her stem while she attempts to bloom into bliss.

It’s never as easy as written word or spoken prayer.

It’s never as easy as making it sound as though,

You came before time mattered enough to be relative to it.