:::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:::