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Lullaby

Tell me,
Is it the Hunter or the Harlot that left you here,
Sat atop this hill,
Draped in the rains that you held so dear,
That whisper to you still.
Did you ever learn their names,
Or did you only count their wins,
As they turned from you and left to join
The world you won’t let in.
 
So take my hand, my sweet prince,
I’ll lead you through the fray,
Across the bones of the plans you’ve sown,
But lost along the way.
You say you’ve not yet found a reason,
To say your name out loud,
So we’ll scratch the sound of empty words,
Across the rim of your white crown.
 
Tell me,
When you speak into that broken mirror,
The shards in your right hand,
Does the ache you buried, layer by layer,
Still haunt the face you hang.
Did your heart cry out in protest,
As you tore it from your sleeve,
And bound it by the rivers edge,
To sink where you can’t see.
 
So leave this place, my sweet prince,
We’ll climb these weathered steps,
Swathed in clouds of thunderous doubt
And blossoms of regret.
You say you’ve nothing left to offer,
Bar the truths that you have found,
So with grace you claim that silver chair,
Five miles from the ground.
 
Tell me,
Do you ever wonder how we lived,
Before we claimed this cave,
And painted all the worlds you took
As true and stark as stain.
Don’t you ever think to turn away,
From those effigies you see,
The life that I have made for you,
A life lived on your knees.
 
So rest your head, my sweet prince,
And give yourself to sleep,
Ignore the turn of the earth below,
And the thoughts that stir beneath.
I say we put these things to bed,
So heed this lullaby,
And lay in the arms of the ghosts you found,
Inside each endless night.

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