The bed is a garden of sweet thorns
The pillow filled with loving knives
Procrastination; the warm covers
Comfort in demise
The garden is a bed of vast vineyards
Hard labour; intoxicating wine
Staggering in exhaustion
Yet rest hardly gives you her time
Light exposes the shadows
Of skeletons long unchecked
Demons may appear as hallows
Where that light is cunningly bent
Darkness starts from the heart
Illuminating our true nature
Disguised as a work of art
Where good flows through its chambers
And I, am a man of flesh
Destined to never see my bones
Funny how the vital parts of you
Will keep their peace when so unexposed
They require no reward
Or recognition
They simply do their best
According to what you've been given
They continue without rest
When we never even think of it!
Consider me impressed
How this humility isn't siphoned
Though it resides beating,
In your chest
