Ripples laden with slow songs
are the blinks of your sleepy eyelashes
lashing me for sold innocence
and for feeding dreams with the putrid meat of wrongs.

The past is beautiful in your eyes child
when tears wasn't ink to seal hate
and all these dainty pooh-pooh of pride
Was nothing, if it wasn't chocolate.

How you sought magic leaving my room cluttered
while you chuckled at the sight of it with puerile lens.
I regret all your unicorns I butchered
when I filled your head with realism and science.

As you sleep after bedtime tale
I will kiss your bruised temple
and oil your hair with the  vial of alabaster
broken from a guilty heart.

I'll cut the awe of you into letters
to weave a vast verse
studded with adventure and magic

and new lullabies cherubic.

- Martins Deep