:::epitome:::

i wish for you Sweet Sundays, my love,
and freedom from every vacant memory
that finds you where you are.
i wish for your Song to rise out of your chest
like a river and for your mouth to find
the purest breasts that have never been lain against.

i wish for the salt  that you hide in your eyes to spill Honey,
and your vagueness to clarify within a dream
and spin round our bodies until sickened with truth.
i wish for all wants to cease and for time, and fear
to disarm themselves and close the circle of their cruel spell.

i wish for Silence of my thought, and Stillness of my blood.
from a distance i am close and in your arms i remain your birthright.
lovers and dead men, Kings and fools, Vagrants, liars, Virgins...
they are writing about it, and singing about it, and killing themselves for it.
For what love? Not for this...this love is the first in all of time.
This is the beginning of love.

:::amber.hart.sinclair:::

:::all the same:::

it is a season for you
every thing is vague and meaningless without form
indifferent and abrupt, a subtle letdown
balderdash and nit picking for all takers
a symphony of impossibility ringing true
it cries finality and it is cruelty at it's best
this is, this thing, the debut of an imagined dream
a wrist held firmly with a sideways glance
an angry tongue and a bitter mouth
subtly sinks me down onto my knees again and again
this is all for me...it is my gift and i receive it alone.
perhaps love is not enough to give this world
in solitude, unidentified, and clean... i remain
i dare to let words...thoughts...fears...dance alone
quiet now little bird ~
the snap of a trap
or the toss of a rope...it releases me.
nothing is real except this silence and truth
of which i shut up and abide.
i am closed.
i am real.
leaving alone...
on a foggy morning
unacquainted.

:::amber.hart.sinclair:::