It’s Of Those Lies We Told Ourselves

It’s of the lies we told ourselves, 

That comfort barbed with fear; 

It’s pointed thorns that press in deep 

To skin so fresh and clear. 

It’s of the lies we told ourselves, 

That chance that’s left untaken;

It’s seeds a-carried on the winds 

To concrete paths, forsaken. 

It’s of the lies we told ourselves, 

That peace that blinds us so; 

It’s ready shoots blocked from the light 

‘Neath pristine sheets of snow. 

It’s of the lies we told ourselves, 

That silenced truth inside; 

It’s rain that comes on warmer days and 

For it we have cried. 

And from it we will hide.

My name is Darrell Barnard-Jones, a writer, actor and gardener living in Surrey; by maintaining a lateral connection to these three commitments, and merging and mingling them at every opportunity, I use poetry to record what I find.